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I don't dedicate things to myself...

Turns Out We're Moving Headlong Into Apocalyptia

Picby Marc Lionhart26 Aug 2014

With the phone calls at night to nobody and the countless therapy suggestion letters, we learned nothing
We keep our nose pointed towards a horizon cluttered with mushroom clouds
Turns out we knew our future, but buried it in a time capsule assuming the alien-humans of 22,005 would give a shit
I've never known my own species to care, let alone a smarter one
I fall short daily, let those around me down and write boring memoirs, to be read by nobody
I distanced myself from the explosion while everyone I knew ran headlong into it, calling the flames "an act of god" and embracing them
The creatures we considered dumb are running away to secure survival, prolong their existence and evolve
We rejected this notion
We have stopped, and are waiting for the salvation that will never come
When we say "Who Cares!" we do not expect an answer, since it has already been written, and what the script states we must oblige
You may ask yourself, "Is this poetry?", and I will answer, "Who cares"
Poetry is existence, and we exist only to move headlong into a cataclysmic apocalypse, one without quantity, without mercy
"God help us!" we say, he doesn't respond
We look at our mobile phones for the next level of microcosm, only to be lead back to the meadows and confused
Excuse me, I have a call waiting...