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poem about the future

future death suicide poetry

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#1
iamthefuture

iamthefuture

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The Simulator

This started as a suicide note 
but you found you had no one to write. 
So now it’s to everyone, no one. 
It’s words on paper, 
on a screen, 
wherever. 
Meaningless, 
empty, no purpose 
except to be read 
by no one. 
Maybe 
these words would go on 
to tell a true ghost story. 
One where the supernatural is almost believable, 
thumbing through the endlessly expanding wealth 
of human fallibility 
and lust for superstition. 
Thirteen chapters for fun 
and realistic measure; 
in the end the hero dies, choking on irony, 
consumed by the invisible monster 
trapped in every closet 
and lurking under the bed of every innocent child, 
maybe, 
or perhaps go on to compose 
a gut-tossing love story, 
breaking every tender heart, 
telling the sordid, tragic tales 
of loss, redemption, 
and happily-ever-after 
dish of nearly every Hollywood spree 
through the wild odyssey 
of amber romance and abrupt vomit, 
playing on the gullibility 
of millions of naïve, infinitely 
youthful teenagers 
and young adults 
blind to the inevitable realities 
of abuse and affairs and law suits and divorce. 
 
It's poor, hopeless poetry.
Run on sentences and fragments. 
Kicking the rules of language to the curb. 
Chicken scratch. 
Ink on paper, 
here is your heart, 
here is your beating, troubled heart. 
Here, you write, you’re sharing. 
You've walled the world in, 
and you hope 
it didn't bring a sledge hammer. 
You’re worried because you spread the disease 
of negativity 
and pessimism and 
wax eternally cynical. 
You’re worried you’re an inverted prism 
of misery, backwards talk, 
double speak, two faced,  
poisonous lovers spit and suck 
and sticky shit 
that doesn't stink 
but stains and it never, ever ends. 
It’s an open, broken window 
forgotten in the wicked winter; 
there is a reason it’s cold in here, 
there is a reason your limbs are stiff. rigid,
brittle, rigor mortis. 
You want to write a sad, terrible siren song 
where the chorus yells how these words 
make the world fiction 
and this song is it's prison. 
Another escapist excuse; 
you want to forget, 
because it’s not like it’s going away.
 
Another climax for the theatrical addict. 
You’re avid, famished, 
desperate for the future. 
The future is where you live forever 
and know everything, 
create and destroy 
and devour and 
get bored quick. 
You pass the time with a vicious, 
silver needle for the mind. 
You shoot up glowing experiences 
of a bloody birth, 
fleeting childhood, confused adolescence, 
all the angst, anger, lust, sex, violence, war, 
disease, and 
death 
the world has ever harbored. 
You live to survive, 
you live to work. 
You hurt and you cry 
and you lose 
and you love 
and you kill 
and you take 
and you lust. 
You’re at once ignorant 
and awake to the 
awful truth: if you want to 
start over, 
all you have to do is kill yourself. 
Turn the heart off and 
disconnect the brain. 
 
You wake in the future, 
momentarily horrified, 
stunned in remembering 
what the fuck, 
where the fuck, 
how the fuck. 
The rush: 
life in a quantum syringe. 
An organic matrix. 
One billion quivering, 
throbbing, pulsing orgasms, 
adrenaline spikes, the apex of euphoria and terror, 
the drug of mortal sentience. 
This is consciousness. 
This is all there is 
and you hold it in your perfectly evolved hand, 
a steaming puddle of grotesque, 
beautiful knowledge. 
A yacht of the imagination, 
and it is just as real as you remember. 
You remember how 
only death makes life worth living. 
Only sitting, lying, contemplating 
on the edge of non-existence 
do you truly appreciate existence. 
And you cry, you sob.
Now you’re dead 
and you’re in the glorious, 
magnificent future 
where any defeated underdog 
can be dead and still laugh about it. 
Death is just waking up. 
Death is time travel. 
Death is the future and everyone is doing it.
 
 
The Simulator. 
Number one most common terminator: 
Biological Mortality. 
Disease, cancer, accidents, homicide, suicide. 
Time is no longer measured in years. 
No decades, millenniums or eons. 
Anymore you think, 
reckon, predict 
in the escalating score of lives. 
The number of consecutive terminal universes 
you bring into awareness. 
Every one a spreading saturation 
of organic quantum fluctuation constructs, 
all digital playgrounds, 
some finite spectral experience
of excessive failure and horrific sculptures 
of energy and indifferent evolution. 
Each dark body a unique soul; 
each an awkward, exalted puzzle, 
their  lonely, violent secrets 
hiding in dreams and ideas that betray your creative libido. 
You could peel back 
the minds of every hostile mind 
and expose the throbbing and fleshy 
indian pink tendrils to the 
dense luminous colors they can’t even fathom. 
You could collapse 
the igneous mansions of coral cards 
they call unyielding knowledge and rocky reality. 
The terrible vehicle of being. 
 
You lie back 
eager, weak, and starved 
for another life. 
The future is lonely 
and boring and 
bursting with empty, abandoned, 
forsaken space. 
Birthing universes makes you tired, 
wears you out, 
and you just want to live and die again. 
You’re parched for blood and horror. 
So you drop your plans and 
boot The Simulator and think briefly 
how the 21st century 
is your favorite. 
A gleaming pinnacle 
of both gross comfort and Utopian suffering. 
Awful, arousing hordes 
of infinite stupidity 
and countless acres of sand and shit and dirt 
and rich, reflective surfaces. 
Millions of mirrors for the longing. 
You wonder which you’ll be. 
You hope for another brilliant experience, 
maybe one where you grow wise in poverty, 
torn from the love of your life 
by war and famine and religion and chance. 
Maybe you’ll be the singing snake 
at the altar of a church 
where millions of innocent swine 
give their last bloody pennies up 
in hopes for a touch of your spotless, 
arsenic passion and eburnean heart. 
That blonde, rusted smile, 
held together by the ragged roots 
of a golden dandelion.  
Maybe you’ll be murdered or sacrificed, 
maybe you’ll be the sinewy martyr, 
the horned, barbed, keen 
electric indigo hammer 
and nail of God, 
on a spiraling psychedelic path 
to a lush jungle paradise 
of every imaginable ending. 
Your beloved specks on a flushed celadon canvas, 
a plethora of perfect pigments and parts. 
Life is poetry, a passage 
of burnt sienna problems 
and the atomic, 
fatal locus of 
every single bathos. 
You will always be a slave 
to the hateful overseer 
of Want and greed. 
Life is the gorgeous, 
satin music, 
haunting and howling 
the language of 
hidden signals and 
you will never escape.


#2
iamthefuture

iamthefuture

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This is the main idea. that we're already IN the future. Everything is a simulation to pass the time. anyone?

You lie back 
eager, weak, and starved 
for another life. 
The future is lonely 
and boring and 
bursting with empty, abandoned, 
forsaken space. 
Birthing universes makes you tired, 
wears you out, 
and you just want to live and die again. 
You’re parched for blood and horror. 
So you drop your plans and 
boot The Simulator and think briefly 
how the 21st century 
is your favorite. 
A gleaming pinnacle 
of both gross comfort and Utopian suffering. 
Awful, arousing hordes 
of infinite stupidity 
and countless acres of sand and shit and dirt 
and rich, reflective surfaces. 
Millions of mirrors for the longing. 
You wonder which you’ll be. 
You hope for another brilliant experience, 
maybe one where you grow wise in poverty, 
torn from the love of your life 
by war and famine and religion and chance. 
Maybe you’ll be the singing snake 
at the altar of a church 
where millions of innocent swine 
give their last bloody pennies up 
in hopes for a touch of your spotless, 
arsenic passion and eburnean heart. 
That blonde, rusted smile, 
held together by the ragged roots 
of a golden dandelion.  
Maybe you’ll be murdered or sacrificed, 
maybe you’ll be the sinewy martyr, 
the horned, barbed, keen 
electric indigo hammer 
and nail of God, 
on a spiraling psychedelic path 
to a lush jungle paradise 
of every imaginable ending. 
Your beloved specks on a flushed celadon canvas, 
a plethora of perfect pigments and parts. 
Life is poetry, a passage 
of burnt sienna problems 
and the atomic, 
fatal locus of 
every single bathos. 
You will always be a slave 
to the hateful overseer 
of Want and greed. 
Life is the gorgeous, 
satin music, 
haunting and howling 
the language of 
hidden signals and 
you will never escape.






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