A better way to lie.

We're miserably failing, you and I.
Our shoes lying morosely in the sand with their mouths wide open.
Poem doesn't come the way it used to.
Now we have to grunt every sentence out.
Push it out like a morning shit without a cigarette.
Too young and too scared and already,
way too tired to be grown-ups.
The sea eats up the beach inch by inch.
Consumes all the empty beer bottles
and the torn fishnets and the condoms.
Then burps.
A nearby dog wakes up from his sandy nest.
We're too scared to write.
Too sleepy to be honest.
Too hungry.
All the time.
(I am already bored, in the middle of writing this poem.
For what's the point. Its not a good poem.
Its a bunch of shit.
There is no rhythm. There is no conscience.
No yearning, no ambition.
No swear words. Not even thinly veiled truths.
Nothing to salvage.
Maybe if I end it with a pretty image...)
A warm night falls on us. The shoes are gone.
The sea ate them. The bastard.
The dog comes over, sniffs at my toes.
Then pisses into the sea
and goes away.