ramble

how long do i have to sit in this swamp, i ask myself

before my flesh rots and bones turn black

and i can no longer see the stars on the dome of velvet dark

my fingers scrabbling madly for the crooked frames of my long-gone eyeglasses

if it was easy would i be free?

rather, i’d be restless and itchy

or maybe just blind in my perception of superiority

not that being so lowly erases my ego

double-barrel shotguns are soaked with grease, unpalatable

that craft knife on the counter dull from the hundred-hour rose bouquet

pills are just not common in this place, legacies rule our home

so i guess i’m just too good for anything

perhaps nothing is good enough for me anymore

the word pleasure doesn’t hold any meaning, no longer elicits memories

i’m just tired, tired, tired, all the time

this is becoming a contrived monologue repeated one too many times

wishing wishing wishing wishing wishing

that i didn’t cry or apologize or throw my head back against the bed frame

had i just gotten better

there would be no problems

this is pointless and narcissistic

miserable and pregnant with all the wrong intentions

Kill Me Stephen White NEW YORK TIMES BESTSELLING AUTHOR

everything seems to mock me as i press Ctrl+S