brain shrinkage,
dialating eyes of confusion,
the molding of stress
in the pool of sobriety,
receding hairlines and
developing obesity,
the awry rationalization
of everyone's
depression in controlled economics,
the weariness in a blackhole,
sore feet,
sore body mass,
the lower backs breaking only for Moloch,
the lack of enthusiastic sense
to search for enjoyment,
for everything and anything,
one dead end leads to another,
the lights out hour
and
its deadly suffocating bed box
sadness machine;
as/while my relentless contemplation
for suicide delays,
I think I am more concerned
that with no savings at all,
the could/would-be bills for a funeral
may matter more than the death itself
but yeah,
this little enumeration
of a poem does no help
at all

but

a bottle of brandy
may help to make
it clear,
even for me.