my guitar must have a lucid reason for attempting life

what is life?

my guitar cautions me that it’s this extremely vulnerable happenstance existing like disease in an already sick reality

my guitar tells me to stare out my window trying to will the ugliness into something beautiful and worth living for

my guitar reminds me the streetlights leer. the sky has fangs. the street wreaks of sin and the most vile of intentions

my guitar laughs knowing that ain’t even the fucking worst of it

the worst is that this is the last stop before an endless void of darkness

you go right ahead and believe in your pathetic afterlife

we both know you’re clinging to a dream because the alternative is just too damn terrifying

we’re all fucking alone

don’t be foolish or desperate enough to think there’s something else

your guitar on the other hand…