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5.

I have no right to be disappointed.
No one ever told me
that I could have expectations of anything at all.

Yet here I am,
hurt a little more
with every passing day.
Surrounded by wickedness,
my idealism slides into
misanthropy. Once, I committed cruelties
by accident; now, I relish in them,
plotting each little act of vengeance
with enthusiasm.

To distract myself, I turn on the radio.
Lynyrd Skynyrd wants little girls to fuck them.
Lyricists rant about the sins of their lovers;
Another song quibbles over who will dump
whom first.
Pettiness and childishness
molest my consciousness,
overwhelming what little
lust for life I have left.
I dig in my bag for an upper.
Traffic passes me in apathetic sheets.

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