They say
I should kill
myself.

I could
disguise my
sadness, dress it
in irony
let it seep
softly out
as dissatisfaction.

But I can’t. I
become vociferous
about the meaningless
rotation of the earth.

. I keep
pushing them to see the vanity of all efforts,
the relativity of all aspirations and the futility
of all achievements.

I love them. Because they are blind
angels still clinging to
an extravagant illusion.

They need not change.
But I’m getting drunk
and foraging through ancient doubts
closing in on the certitude
that nothing can be known.

I bring back from the books
the inevitable history of death.

I speak and they say
I should kill
myself,
or be forever miserable.

I say no;                                           I’ll write poetry.

Nihilistic Poetry