Break Time

So tired.

Glossed over

the mad season’s crawl.

Suffered from every

self inflicted affliction

I could get my hands on.

 

My cup runneth over

with all kinds of

morbid cocktails

and I have stood in line

too long

to take them back,

so I just stand there

nursing my disappointments.

 

In the dark,

you can see even the tiniest light.

My blurred vision

smears images

of varying degrees of decrepitude

over my brain

and I try my best

to rub them out.

 

No rest for the wicked.

No discounts for friends.

No breaks for the hard chargers

and there will sure as hell

be no days off come Christmas.

Hell,

we’ll be lucky to have

walking around money.


Breaks?

Nope,

never catch ’em.

Slave to the all-night

play dough grind.

Life is a fun factory.

Claims can be presented

to the Fuck-off Department.

Smooth skin,

but jagged on the inside.

 

Oh, how I’d love to watch you fuck,

but I’m so tired,

detached from song stylings,

drugs don’t even find me

in the life before daytime.

So tired,

sleep deprivation,

hallucination;

it’s so quiet.

 

HG – 2016

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