bad forces hold sway.
Why’s it always have to be this way?
Any time I make some time and space,
trick cigars blow up in my face.
Too tired of this stale routine,
of struggling up again,
and scrubbing myself clean,
of running to my pen,
and snuggling up with what I mean.
Wish I could cut away the rot,
tie a tourniquet and chop if off,
then carry on with what I’ve got
minus a house full of stuff,
and a madman with a cough.
But I can’t, so I persist.
Try not to count the years I missed.
Too scared to open up my wrist.
I bludgeon on,
though hope has gone.
I do not live, I just exist.