While scratching my chest hairs
with my pocket knife.
I was on my stained bed,
with tiny crumbs, with stains
of blood from my cut finger
from the other night.

I scratch softly,
The boredom amuses me,
kills me.

The funeral March plays softly on
the stereo.
I started liking beer,
it’s taking over the wine.
I drink,
I smoke,
well, what else is there to do on a Wednesday night?
**** myself?
But then I’ll have to get out of bed and right now,
this bed is my heaven and my muse at the moment.