There was no parking lot for me to commit suicide in

Bad
loud music
cheap wine and expensive women
the light makes it worst: you can’t
tell the difference between them and roaches
tits up in the air
smiles that vomit death
the reservoir where the idiots drink
is not the reservoir where the lonely drink
and the seats where the idiots sit
is the warning sign for the retreat of the wise
Bad music hitting my chest
my lights inside glowing red the woofers
ripping the hair off my soul
and they laugh pretending having
the ultimate escape 
from pain
from retardation
from the casket
from the guilt of their unassumed
murder
not knowing that
World War 3 has commenced
but I bet they know
and that its going to enter
the secret shameful homes they 
never talk about