what the hell happened

knuckles cracked
and
molded by circumstance
we often sit alone at night and wonder
where did it all go wrong
the clock ticks two seconds too late
and it’s
too early to get drunk
and
too late to try
idle hands and
satan’s hologram
the porch light is on
but
it doesn’t really matter

these are the nights where
a glass of rum
and
a warm blanket
don’t quite cut it
guilt and shame seem to linger
just around the corner
like an overweight prostitute in heat

books are good tool for these times
stories of far away worlds
and impossible heros
so lucky
in an unlikely way
helping to remind us
who we aren’t
the trap door is just that
and that
there’s always a means of escape