Relax: Even Cowards Get Tombstones

With days like one-act tragedies
it's a constant origami of the soul:
keep folding, try again.

My watch ticks from my dresser
louder than it does on my wrist.
I rarely wear it anymore, or even pants
through these laid off weeks of observation
basking in the smut and squalor of
a newfound twenty-five.
I'm not the only one
but I'm the only one Here
most times.
I hate to admit it, but
I see what he meant now.

It's my party and I'll cr...
--be predictable--
...if I want to.

Statistically speaking
we shouldn't be breathing.
The odds defeated pave the way;
let's get together and feel alright
minus the whole Jamaica part
if only for one night.

More bridges burned than fences mended;
more bad news, bare;
more thumbnail fights against an invisible grain;
more jetlag messing with my head;
all this multitasking's left me weak in the knees
and in need of a guild that'll never come to be:

Apathy is the new white.

Two years is two years.
Some nights the pillows are fluffier than others.



Currently reading:
"The Iceman Cometh" by Eugene O'Neill.