necrophiliac apotheosis

not knowing your place in the world is dangerous

I've been living on the ground for years now

i need to become how i was before 

the natural colors of my roots grow in again

tangled out grasping for air

I'm living that mundane living dream

I play pathfinder every monday with my friends

and my friends love me

and my colleagues think I have potential 

I'm not doing much these days but reading through old essay papers from the lauded 20th century film and music artists

and I got the feeling that this modest life is sweet

she was loved by her friends and family

but I've got that sick fetish for necrophilia

cast upon myself

I want people to read off all the drugs listed in my autopsy

I want people to desecrate my grave

I want people to deep fake my likeness

oh my, that boy sacrificed so much sleepless nights

look at the clusters of eczema'd skin dried up along his arm

the calloused hands, my god, what a texture, what a shape

the worst part is that I yearn for the light that blinds me again

I want to be made into god again

but this time, out of my own volition

but no one truly anoints themselves god

some heretic fanatic must carry my body up the mountain

but im not quite dead yet, there's work to be done