[no title]

by india southgate.

 
i try not to live forever
because all that shit is like
a delicate house of cards;
building fame
leaving legacy
and for what?
is this not all we have?
what is the point?
what is left when you fall asleep?
what is left when you're alone?
when your creativity goes
like the whores in your bars... gone?
all those lyrics
about bitches and money 
burnt and old?
spent and cold?
a cult of cold eyes slowly dying off
the name on your head
stone rubbed through
how are people supposed to remember you?
id rather go out loudly
in a forest where
the echo won't carry me far
and won't last longer
than i do.

[unpublished]

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