Don't glorify my shit

Don't praise me.
I'll only use it to justify my sitting here
Ignoring the outside world, running from it and falling headlong into the depths of thin, cheap paper.

Using mediocre arrangements of words that i cobble together as a shield to place between me and the biting truth that I'm not different. That I'm no better, that I'm not even worse.

I'm just a simple bandwagon hopper who issues false proclamations of profundity while defining the mundane like my arsehole issues air as it defines the shape of my shit.

My words are the lubricating drivel that your eyes slip over like the patch of ice that slides underfoot, leaving you dazed and staring at the sky trying to remember the direction that gave your gaze purpose.

So mind your step, don't walk into me. Your feet will sink into my ground  of nihilistic loathing and swallow you into my darkness.

I use pastel chalks made of turds to paint pictures, and hope for something holy, never stepping back far enough to see the pretty patterns are still visions of shit.

So walk around me,  hold your nose and cover your eyes

and don't stop to hang your hopes on the twisted noose of my words.