my existence
is that of procrastination
biding my time
until the clock ticks out

father time
will have no ***** left to
give, and mother
nature will have
jogged her course

there's nothing left for
me here. raucous chatter,
degradation via insolence,
disregard for basic human
life

******* on my virtues,
scraping up my vices
(like gravy curds left on ham)
you pick me apart
and throw me to my bed

so I can dig my fingernails into
my upperthigh and muse
on regret and self-hatred and
the mistake of my

existence, as I wait
for father time
to grow tired of me
as well