The wind blew through
this emotional wreck,

and in the breaker's yard
everyone breaks their neck
trying to escape
except for me
I
am balanced finely
and the wind blowing through
this crevasse can kiss my ***,

I am or I was because I no longer am
and yet that matters not a jot to me

suddenly Saturday
what do I have planned today?
the same that I plan for every day,
to go on
and going on
will be the death of me
eventually.