they all drop

at times i remember
those cold nights in november,
when a bottle of wine was all i had;
it seemed to me that nobody
cared for or acknowledged me,
and that feeling made me so sad.

twenty years of living now;
i do not truly know how
i survived here for so long,
and maybe the cigarettes
will turn out to be regrets,
but fuck it, they were worth the song.

i don’t care about breaking the bank,
for the people that once did; they all sank,
for no body ever stays on top;
no, they all drop.
and i don’t care about this being read,
for i enjoy the writing much more instead;
your opinions couldn’t make me stop.
no, they all drop.

never did i plan to be
so lost in my poetry
that i simply don’t respond
to the negativity
through which they deliver the
fear, for i’m just not so fond;

i don’t care about the news on tv,
for these things are all just simply
tools that they use to cut and chop
minds till they all drop.
and nothing really can be taken for real;
seriousness is a disease. if you feel
like things are about to pop,
why not let them drop?