I get a kick out of the inhale
the exhale even more so
my pockets never overflow
i'm a victim of the system
if you say so
load me up with pills
until my pupils turn to dust
you can't see it, but I can feel it
as far as you're concerned,
a filthy lucre is all you need
to watch me fall into
an inhale and an exhale of a hollow life
where both sadness and happiness
come in the form of indifference
because if you're telling the truth,
the pills aren't doing their job

I watched his heart break
it dripped all over his shirt
a dark crimson swamp
I kept my distance.

I watched him fall to the ground
moving his hands across the ground (contact-searching, seemingly)
he had this look on his face of:
“where is it?”.

I thought
“I should help him”
But I knew no matter what
I’d never see those heart pieces.

The clock gets me.
It comes to me in the middle of the night
Pulls back the sheets and says, "Hey fucko."
Then it lifts open my sobby wet sand-encrusted lids,
It knows when I'm trying at sleep, pumping quarters
Like I was swallowing yawns, sometimes I try to squint
Harder and take a dream to the next level, whatever
The next level is. It's like Friday night when I wanted to go
Out to do something, whatever something is.
Because I know that if I don't I'll miss that thing that's so
Important that if I were to miss it the clock wouldn't come for me

Again.
And on Tuesday's when I'm knotting a dream around 2 o' clock
In the morning, my web-footed adventure, say, killing your

Boyfriend, say
Fighting the Nazis, say,
Rediscovering that you sent nudie pics to
That rando guy we met in that club that lives
in Prague-
I throw the clock at the ******* wall.

Because who knows, I make the bed wrong
Or maybe I don't cook right, or look right, or
Smile the right way at the right

Time. And you start thinking that I have to die.
The bane of my existence is an imagined feat in your
Walnut-sized brain, slowly numbing us while we're
Supposed to be, say

Listening to the rich, Oxford voice of
David Attenborough.

Instead you're thumbing through that index
of CVS cashiers, just trying to find a scruffy face
To flip your digits to, your homemade justification. It becomes
A feat, an unjust cause of mine to

Get it right, that imaginative and artificial bit you've
Been sewing up Monday twilight.

That's when I go out and jaw your sister, somewhere between
A smirk on your face and a bit of anger at the end of your sentences.