When the sickness is overbearing
and you feel your kidneys throbbing.
When you stay up in promise of
the next blow...
is this what you meant?
Did you mean to tell us
that nothing is worth anything?
That heroin will rape you
of much more than your soul...
is this what you meant to tell us,
you sick bastard?
You hid behind your punk rock
and your blonde hair
and your sexy "quiet artist" facade.
You acted as if life
could make for a good book...
I curse your soul.
You never really told us
that we would wake up
choking on our vomit,
that we would end up in flop-houses
making trips on the "L"
down to Adams Street to hustle dumb tourists
for ten dollars...
You never mentioned that we would trade one sick
for another
and despise ourselves for it.
To hell with you, Kurt Cobain.
You lying ****.
This is my last stand.
Do any of you know what it feels like
to be a junkie?
you sit in your perfect lives
and pretend to have problems,
when in fact you are just a drama-hog
just like the rest of them.
Most of you are still in high school.
Most of you still have something to lose.
If I sound angry, it's because I am.
The world ****ed me
and I can only blame myself.
Do you have any idea how infuriating that is?
When the only person you can scream at and strike blows at
is that aging bastard in the mirror?
To hell with heroin shiek
and doctor phil
and the rest of them.
I only wish
that before I finished all of this
I could have published something.
Unless I change my mind, my last words are this...
Give up writing. Give up entertainment.
Go to school, go into business. Have a family. Forget being immortal.
The world forgets people like us before we even pass.
Peace.


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