There couldn't be a better place to be:
Where else could I
whelm myself
in a breeding grounds for bestial beings?
Why is there a satisfaction
ff living to tell about
what happened to them, but not me?
Who else if not I
that can walk out of a situation,
scratch-free
while everyone else lays down
with arrows still through them.
This wouldn’t be the first time,
nor the last.
There couldn't be a better world
than this:
how bleach bleaches its people colorless
and replacing them with new ones.
Rarely do I
care what I do
or what I say,
as schadenfreude overfills everyone's cup.
Couldn’t be me.
Can't be a generalization, no .
See, I crack up like a glow stick .
You shed light on topics.
I watch politicians argue about
Who can be more close-minded.
Candidates who can be more childish
Than the one who children should stay away from
Or the one who children should fear the age of 18.
Cough, cough
I see authorities quell in the wrong moments.
There won't be a world any longer
If everyone has bona fide egos
And is unscathed from backlash
Able to rejuvenate their reputations
And erase their pasts.
There won't be a better place to be
If teenagers can't feel this way
And they feel the need
To label themselves an “Eccedentesiast”
I'd let myself bleed
Because I don't keep secrets stashed
There should be a better place to be
Where dichotomy is heavily present
But for fact and opinion
And not race
There should be a better place to be
Where wanderlust should be tailgated
By the possibilities of coming home
Where I don't always have to be cautious
Or strategic
There should be a better place to be
Where I can be nostalgic
Where there’s a satisfaction
Of living to talk about
What happened when
We were all there,
Enjoying a pineapple drink in the summer
And chicken-noodle soup in the winter
That’s not the world I'm
There’s no better place to be:
Where else could I
Be in the moment
That's auspicious
Enjoying my success
With a chainsaw in hand
And the ladder in half
And you on the ground
With an arrow still through you
Where else could you exist
Where other people screw you
And your pain is ephemeral.
It takes drudgery to exist in this world,
Yet it's the aesthetic
Of cold-blooded people
Splotches of crimson red, of failures
of zero vibrance,
but plenty green.
An oranges melting across the planet.