last night’s glass of rum
sat stale on my nightstand
i just wanted one day of peace
but there was “work” to be done
hunched over cross legged in a chair
i was sick and unable to write
it was cold outside and
the clock was ticking it’s usual boredom
the coffee hit my stomach hard
bowels angry with bad living
that cursor was a curse
blinking, staring
“if i write it will all go away” i thought
at least for a moment
not true
and i’m almost there
it seems that the angel of sadness
has left me
and the devil of complacency
has taken her place
there’s nothing to write today
no dreams, no sex
no profound thoughts
life isn’t always poetry
and when you’re an adult
weekends have no meaning
not like when you were a kid
cozy on the couch
with sugary cereals and
saturday morning cartoons
keeping you in a trance
as you tried not to
wake the sleeping giant
i’ve lived multiple lives
in such a short span
but sunday is coming
“the lord’s day”, not really
just another day to be
fat dumb and happy