Subpar, but Whatever.

Everyone is either dead.
Or I got lost a long time ago and they just couldn't
locate me.

And, we don't speak anymore.
So there's always just me to pick up these ashes.
Of my social scene.

And, these habits.
Get repetitive.

A recurring nightmare of banal idle boredom.
The chore of exercise for your basic transportation.
Pacing the halls in pensive angst.
Trying to fight the motorists.
As they pass by.

They don't know I'm king shit.
Of my own.
Turd island.

Even if I walk the Earth in exile.