it's three a.m. and all the blow is sucked and all the hookers are either dead or paid off.
all the dreams have died and all the laughs have been barked out, fake as plastic plants and dangerous as plastic painted in china.
there's no more dr. suess, kids, there's no more hope, no more morals. there's a hole in the bathroom door of our souls, waiting for strangers to come in and fuck it for two cum-stained ten-dollar-bills.
there's a blackness we try to fill with screeching red road rage and boner-inducing movie violence, and porn that our forefathers couldn't even have imagined much less condoned.
we are a broken world.
not religiously or politically, but realistically, where our entire planet is in a downward spiral, and the only rational thing left to do is call in to the radio station and hope your voice makes it onto the air between the traffic report and the commercial for the debt-consolidation scam, so that maybe a little piece of you will carry on after you're mulch.
scream into the night, if you still understand what a scream is, if you still remember what a night is.