waiting in a white room with no furniture the humming air conditioner can’t even drown out my thoughts waiting to go back to maryland for a hyperbolic death sentence— to meet with the wonderful hypocrites who shaped my cynicism and anxiety to feast on the last meal of failure. waiting to hear back from potential employers who hold my future in their hands but prefer to let me stew waiting for the tears to start falling I can feel my eyes welling my lungs lugging every last bit of air to my heart as it pounds like an urgent knock at the door waiting alone with just my thoughts. waiting to see the friends who never got out to see the world to look at me with delight, hoping soon I will re-join their ranks as a mindless tractor mechanic or slurpee filler waiting for the cheap bottle whisky in my stomach to regurgitate waiting for numbing conversations about menial tasks and news like the weather, or something else I can see in front of me. waiting to be coma. waiting to see my reflection— or shadow. waiting for paper and pen, waiting for suicide by rhyme at the end.