|Graffiti scrawled on the elevator door claiming that “This Place Sucks”, as you look down at your shoes, trying to avoid the stare of some 16 year old who thinks he has the world by the balls with his sideways hat and portable phone…
And you wonder if the writing on the door should say, “This Life Sucks”, as you reach the seventh floor and enter the domain of filth and grime.
And you understand that when you enter your small apartment, and you finally get the nerve to jot your emotions in a coffee-stained notebook that is filled with scribbling of villains, heroes, and big-breasted fools.
That you will write another self involved poem that describes the plight of your inner turmoil.
Another night of hatred, loathing, and watching time pass that can never be seized again.
You then think to yourself that maybe you should buy some spray paint and draw a picture of a man hanging himself on the elevator.
That thought brings a sad smile to your face.