No matter how much bad fucks you can escape from,
you can’t escape the depression of your generation.
Like you can’t escape your shit.
It will eventually get you and give a steel punch on your fraudulent senses.
There’s an eternal contribution towards the demon of our mind by us
and no matter how many times you feel like writing a culmination with your word,
you can’t go beyond the proneness of unity in times of desperation.
There’s no shock in living,
there’s no magic in melancholia.
If you can see dreadfulness with coloured glasses then you can get whatever shits of attainment available.
I thought maybe this is the last one
but having poems as your last resort is surprisingly productive
and a pain in the ass at the same time.

…………………………………………………………….

Painting: Zdzislaw Beksinski.