What is stopping you
from giving it all up?
Why do you still breathe —
as if your absence
might dislodge the moon
or un-write a single obituary?
Where do you find
this cocaine of delusion —
that you’re cosmic,
not just a condom-break
that outlived abortion
and became someone’s
annual tax deduction?
How do you move
when even your shadow
refuses to follow
on darker days?
You were never more
than soft tissue
on a ticking clock —
just another organism
crawling through routine,
praying today’s not your last,
hallucinating purpose
in concrete spines
and paper money.
The only difference is:
their hopes are humble —
to not die in the rain.
You write centuries
that won’t remember your name.
What you call wisdom
is auctioned ignorance.
What you call progress
is suicide in uniform.
What you call evolution
is bedtime folklore
told to calm
a terrified ape in denial.
If tomorrow greets you
with no hope,
no meaning,
no myth left to cling to —
pick up a rusted knife,
let it argue with your ribs
until one of you gives in.
And in that final,
exquisite silence,
you’ll learn:
everything they ever told you
was a beautiful lie —
so they could believe
a little longer.
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