Death in Los Angeles
Apathy sinks into the well of your heart
from Skid Row, or Santa Monica,
or CSUN.
It appeals to you, begging
for alcohol, a lover's touch,
anything to fill the void.
Your hand becomes a whore,
or a saint, innocent and devout, blind and bound,
a prisoner to your routine.
That is when death finds you.
It always asks, Are you happy?
Are you empty? Are you ready?
So I embrace the darkness
I kill myself gradually like HIV inside of a fresh host.
Flies all around me
I live with death
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