I'm still attracted to the life-style of self-harm, and self-destruction. I watch my friends destroy their lives, and it's not that I get off from it-- its the secret sort of pain I know they feel; the intimacy and silent prayers they speak with god when they feel the fear that their hearts might give way, or that they're going to be working delis and dead end jobs forever.

It's the envy in my gut, when I see the tall, red haired one pretending to be a famous poet-- speaking rhymes he wrote years before he lost his mind, knowing he'll fuck a prostitute and they'll live off of each other's sicknesses. I wish I'd be as sick as he, to have her, to cradle to health, or out of health, and lose my own. And instead I have this cough, and this pain in my head, behind my ear-- that I've completely given up all acknowledgement of, except on paper.

Or the cheating-- they can eat mushrooms and blame it on the beer, and wake up with a new girl-- pass her around, and the consequences are a slap on the back of the hand. My atonements are dreams that spin like webs that weave uncontrollably to the arythmia of my heartbeat. And dare I become unfunctionable, my credibility is in question-- if a simple task is functioned correctly, they're praised.

So, this raises the question, and in their stash under their noses, between their shaking, hyperventilating chests I found a pulse, and a pen. Where is the muckraker?

Waiting, patiently, to change society.