kicking back

caught up in my lack of slack

tasting tacky affairs and caught unaware by that

resting moments sprawl

casting nets and getting fuck all

from the brackish waters of these

bittersweet dreams

where reality seems to split at the seams

and the sheen of this rose red bliss


no time to tell the story hell I’d rather

not have a story to tell

than spend each unconscious moment in

tasteless agony that bleeds into morning

and sometimes just past three

where the night is encroaching and I’m feeling


alone and without a chance

to survive this

nocturnal atrophy


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