a throbbing discontent,

a deluted sence of hope,

feeds my broke ego,

a freaksh brute on dope.

a limp and vile nusience,

that ever haunts my bliss,

a foul and criptic tourment,

a sickening abyss.

its tasteless greed for power,

and its feeble will compressed,

is the base of unknown sadness,

a shameful vice depressed.

i say i hate myself with a spineless tone of voice,

a wicked confrontation,

a decayed sence of choice.

so fortune cookie,

tell me my fate,

will i survive or desinegrate?