I am not a person like tomorrow.
A walking ghost,
I still live alongside blissful degeneracy.
They stole ten years from me,
Ten years of my ecstatic individualism.
A decade spent crying into the hard, wooden floor.
And the fog that clouds my peripheral vision,
Obstructs my future as well, clutching the flask.
But that’s alright.
I will not get my decade back,
Nor my stability, that never lingered,
But I will make a list.
What I missed while I was absent.
Most things start with a list.
Why can’t I?