Get used to it, kid.
There’s a bluebird in my heart, there’s a swallow who guides me through the shit storm that awaits me every morning when my eyes open. I look around in my working, living coffin, and I sigh. The barroom poet reads sonnets to loveless whores who beg for attention. His words fall on deaf ears simply due to the lack of mental registration that resides within the skulls of the sexually acclaimed. Home alone sipping a bottle of something, while staring at the gun in the bedroom. Debating on pulling the trigger. Letting all of the internal demons flush out of the human cavity and into the sheets below. There is no more freedom than absolute death at this stage of the game. Every breath is a failure, might as well get used to dying.