“Another ruined life, Barry Bonds.”

Beyond the default disbelief that’s put by others into my reality,
(which disappoints me immensely, as to not find intellectual
cohesion with my fellow man by the numbers at large,)
I coast virtually untouchable in the physical plane,
or the eternal playground of life, or the immortal lunchroom,
or wherever man battles these days, (which pleases me inexorably;)

all drama sent to me from other humans vaporizes upon contact,
all of which is too feeble to register as valid in my preoccupied mind:
my demons know this well, and though they don’t show it to me,
it must disappoint them, as interpersonal drama, were it a real
power in my life, would comprise a majority of fresh, new
attack material for them, as present attacks made in the same
vein denote but only hypothetical in nature due to my own abstaining
in life’s arenas; and as they manifest reliant on past extrapolations,
(thus making them weak sauce (and they know it which I love,))
demons would surely love it if I more often gave a fuck in the present,

but alas for them, since their presensense has become in my life,
to my life itself and not each painful moment therein,
I am too often fuckless: apathetic; preoccupied by the tip of a knife
or the knuckle of a fist or the boot of a foot, which is whatever crap
they throw at me in barrage attacks at any given moment that can last
for up to an hour and come in shades that last that long each and
give break but only but briefly in between. I’ve had nights of such shades,
or days rather, that had seemed to last like sixteen hours.


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