I’m living on a diet of Citalopram, weed and Snickers bars.
Soft jazz bubbles and falls through the alien hum of the speaker,
As the numerals collide with that three a.m. alienation.
Eye on the clock, everyday feels like an urgent countdown
Of time, time, time; the little I have got, and the amount that I waste.
Still, I grind, grind, grind on the leaves to tempt morning and sobriety,
Whilst my inbox piles up awfully on the side.
It’s misery here. Academia is not for me; it’s not for anyone
Anymore. For all the Starbucks and cheap vodka,
These qualifications will never outweigh the costs.
It has been months since I fell asleep without assistance.
I cannot remember what a dream feels like;
Only that there’s you,
And you are laughing in the park.