fuck it. fuck it all.

you think this is easy?
i have reached it.
point A
never quite got to B
near it
i could smell it
almost taste it
it was right there on the horizon.
but its dissapeared again
from sight,
from taste,
from sense.
there is another place i could go,
point C
but i wouldnt like it there.
which leads me to point Z
and ultimately the end as we know it of James Scott Brulotte,
the death of a sycophant.
the rebirth of something greater and unknown.
a man.
a man forged of iron will and free spirit,
not by women, rules, habits, or television.
a leader,
yet, a loner
i am tired of people and their bullshit.
kill me of it
erase it all
i want nothing to do with it
any of it
and so the next time you see this body...
it wont be the person your eyes see.