I find comfort in your rage.
I feel chosen, to witness
You dying on stage is
Such a grand sight to behold.

When we count the stars
As we count our problems
Involunterally, I swear,
I find that one constellation
That kinda looks like us.

I do not point it out.
That would be selfish.
And the comfort would be
Replaced by anxiety
Replaced by a broken
Vow of sobriety.

And no longer would
My shoulders be wet
From tears shed on a
Beautiful night under
The stars, that I could
No longer name.

So I stay silent and hope
That next time the rage
Won’t be ignited by
You being upset that
No one is there for you.

I’m writing
Because I didn’t write yesterday
And I went to sleep
At 5 in the morning
When the sun was waking
And the world was breaking
In front of my
Eyes

I can tell
That you’re nervous
By the way
That your eyes
Dart away
Like you just remembered
What happened
Yesterday
And by the way
Your leg is having
It’s own little seizure
And by the way
You can’t even hold
Your **** cigarette
Still

Just trust me
It’ll be okay
And we will still
Be here tomorrow
And you still
Won’t be able
To smoke
Like a proper
Cynical *******

twilight dances on my desk
sun rays doing pirouettes
urging me to get up
to do something
anything that’s no less
than an achievement
in and of itself
and yet I ignore
their plea and despite
the proximity
between me and
the inevitable arrival
of Cronus himself
I continue to sit
not mindlessly but
rather aimlessly
watching the sun rays
turn into romanesque
shapes and figures
at the touch of my fingers
and I wonder
about what will happen
if my actions won’t come
with a beaming certificate
for me to put up proudly
on my old and dusty
desk to proclaim
that I, myself,
have meaning