I sat outside in the dark finishing up the end of a cigarette and reading a book of poetry,
Classy night, I'm thinking...
I stood up and took a step to the door hearing no - feeling - a crunch beneath my foot,
A ******* roach.

My first roach-squash,
I've managed to avoid this situation even though I've lived in Texas for 23 years of summer nights.
I wish you'd been here to hear me scream at the carnage in horror,
This was always your job.

You've trained me well.

Driving down the street with my jeep's window's still off,
It's a beautiful tonight and I'm glad I didn't let you convince me to put the windows back on due to the recent rains that have dampened the interior,
**** it, it'll dry
Lost in the cool spring air I'm fantasizing about the vacation I'm planning to get over you,
A bug hits my face and I swerve into oncoming traffic,
I pull over in panic to find a June bug on my floor,
I wonder if it's acceptable to call you one last time,
After all, I need some help putting the windows back on...

I stare at the yellow, orange, red
leaves
floating across the top of the water
With my net - I chase them.
Those who escape my path
are sent
downing in the suctioned whirlpool.

It's ******* cold,
all I can think about -
That fabricated adage, "Fool me once - shame on you. Fool me twice - shame on me."

A genius of a liar,
a salesman at heart.
Intended to be used by the aggressed to remedy the pain,
surreptitiously crafted by the aggressor to ease their own.

Yes, lets!
Blame the beauty of an innocence so sweet they can actually forgive,
and try again.

Hopefully you believe that you're the fool, so that I can ******* over one last time.

Seems I am a bit stuck here
in this
maelstrom of malcontent.

The grand absence of the ebb and flow
of this
most frustrating perennial disposition.

The years progress and the packaging is altered,
but the contents are the same.

Yes, it seems I am a bit stuck.

If it weren't all so forced, the to-do list of the American Dream.  
Pour yourself another glass, light another cigarette, and listen to the bacteria eating away at time.
You think you're so ******* creative, writing misogynistic poetry to soothe the pathetic soul you've become. Woe is you, women don't find it glorifying in real-life.
Read your old-fashioned, crass **** written by the men of the Day
Compare yourself to them, if you'd like
But just know that at the end of the night, you'll still be sleeping alone
With your **** hard and your dreams stale.
Pour yourself another glass, light another cigarette, and try not to listen to the reality of what your life has truly become.

Anticipating the anticipation,
Anticipating the living-life-on-the-edge days.
The ones you hear about
Or you think you've heard about.

You, you've fallen into monotony,
An inescapable feeling of restless contentment.

Some call it depression,
You call it boredom.
They're one in the same,
Except boredom has a much less negative connotation;
And a much shorter life-span.

Mostly, it depends on your age;
The children are bored,
The adults are depressed.

Filling days with self-innovated anxiety,
The kind that didn't always exist,
Or you don't think it always existed.

A drive to be taken by storm
Overwhelmed.
Engulfed.
Something to shake you out of this trance you have been stifled by.

Like a visitor from afar,
You continue to sit in that hotel room,
Anticipating the anticipation of travel.

While you glance
Between the alarm clock,
The room service menu,
The T.V. Guide.

Bored.
Depressed.
Anticipating the anticipation of living.