A lit match:
The smell of cigarettes-
A burnt paycheck-
Momma was right,
makin’ the world mine.

Cars out of gas:
I’m out of gas, too-
Wrecked it? Not quite-
Momma said write it out;
takin’ one day at a time.

Broken expectations:
Thought I’d break out-
But that mold’s still seeping in-
slipping through those cracks
in the glass where I keep my dreams.

Momma said ‘fight it now,’
that ache in my bones.
But I’m spilling diesel-
-with a match, a flash, and a smile;
my last rite:

“How trite”