No,
not like an egg.
Watch my eyes flash from
wall to wall.
Breathing heavy
because that always helps.
My life gets better but
my poems get darker,
filled with anger.
Is this how life is supposed to feel?
Regretting the life that
got me to this point?
Fractures forming.
Oh,
this isn't the end.
There are years left to this.
In five years,
these days will be
the good ole days.
and in ten...
Whisked away on
the edge of a cloud.
Wow,
that was deep.