How I feel this annihilative exile!!: A poem 

I write on a piece of paper, then, 

I scratch out what I’ve written 

and crush the piece of paper  

between fierce fingers! Could action 

be as vehement as thought? I only feel 

my libido in my mind, there is no real 

sex with anyone! And I am no narcissist 

to want to tactilely love myself. When did 

I use my expression last, to spout love?! 

I am a stranger, suddenly, as if I feel 

dapper in my alienness, than be abused! 

Love could actually be exploitative by 

some hidden hands! Then, you realise there 

is no glory in it. And all your actions, hence, 

become a tepid masturbation without fantasy! 

I am just thinking that I owe no responsibility 

to any medium of my expression; WordPress  

or any other press! I am just not bench-pressing  

to lay my soul’s mark on anything or anyone.  

If eternity should go in this way. How would I feel  

a convenient purgation that I both intentionally 

and thoughtlessly murdered everyone in my  

reckoning as well as committed suicide!