Ennui

I’m twenty years old and I’m sick of it all.
I’m sick of pop culture and sick of philosophy.
I’m sick of the urge to appease and appall.
I think Armageddon would seem no great loss to me.

I’m sick of theatrics and false authenticity.
I’m sick of suburbanites, socialites, presidents.
I’m sick of the crowd’s idiotic felicities.
I think the apocalypse would seem to me heaven-sent.

I’m sick of immodesty, sick of propriety.
All humanity reeks with a moth-eaten smell.
I’m sick of the world and I’m sick of society—
but mostly I’m sickened to death of myself.

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