COSMIC SHIT

I know the ways one rejoices pain.
Extract pleasure out of misery, entertain in ways inhumane.
No, I don’t need cocaine.
I’m already high.
I’m always high.
High enough for you to contain.

Why?
‘Cause I’m made of stardust.
I am born to do epic cosmic shit.
I’m a parade of indefinite meteor shower,
And that’s just not it.
I’m hollower than black-holes.
Mightier than solar flux.
I’m hard to comprehend.
Harder to omit.
Swinging in a level way beyond ordinary,
I’m a celestial mess, vomited amid stars,
trying to draw sense out of it.

And how I wish I could slit all your miseries.
Wrap you in a paper towel,
And smoke you like weed.

~

How often I wish to pry…