a footnote on form; one more for

Barrelling headfirst down the snowy climbs
I lost myself in my worthless rhymes.

You see it doesn't get any better
on the other side.
The grass is greener, sure
but that's because it's plastic.
and you can never do better but always more and worse
keep looking round the bend and eventually
you'll find you missed not only that
but everything else.

I guess what you would wonder
and at the end of it all
what I am trying to say
is this:
when they hang me,
I hope I am greeted
with cries of hate.

***
In the end I find that I lose everything. The sense of what I am doing here. The drive to do anything else. Ambition. Talent. Inspiration. It all simply fades into the background radiation of the what else was there. And then, and then there is nothing. Nothing more. Nothing except a lifeless maintainance of the dreary same. Work. Sleep. TV. And maybe an occasional party to draw attention to the fact that event the things I do for fun, aren't any fucking fun. And that's just it. That's the point. There's the rub. For when I shuffle off this mortal coil I don't want to remember that I wasted what little time I had. I am better than this. And I need to do something anything to show it to prove it to let the world see me shining atop the mountains. I was made for great things.

Now that that is done and out of the system...

***
"I am the Bringer of the Sunless Dawn."
- Isaac Aronson, in one of his better, more coherent moments