nothing exists for us

but boredom.

no pain

agony

fear

death

but perpetual yawning

and weariness.

we are not tired

we are not broken —

the middle children of nothingness —

we sleep

dream

desire

dwindle

diminish

downing the dregs

of life.

It is not severe.

no blood

battle

guns

killing

or getting killed

but newspapers

conferences

twitter

arguments

cup of coffee —

brown and jinxed.

no flavor

fervor

but futile

sterile

tranquility.

It’s better to die

with a bullet in your innards

than to lay in this cesspool

of tepid

corrupt

feelings

dying everyday

waking up to another cup of coffee.