i like myself
the most when
i’m not being
wreckless.
so why do
i hate myself
when i’m being
careful?

the clock on my living room wall
is dying
each second it ticks slower while
my heart attempts to beat
in unison
i like the idea that this is my own
personal countdown to the end
of time.

wishing i could compile
all the thoughts that have ever crossed my mind
into something tangible
but my disorganized mind
has no time to stop
and correct
or make sense
because the next stream of consciousness comes along
like a full speed train with no conductor
and i’m tied to the tracks
all signs pointing to the fact i put myself there
but don’t forget who gave me the rope
bound my wrists
and left me for dead

one poem later and i realize
that i’ve become
my parents.

took two pills
took two shots
felt numb
felt sorry
wired
tired.

poetry is far too beautiful
to contain all the sadness
i hold in my heart

let’s get high and
pretend everything is
alright