Last night, I read about the reforms of Solon in
Ancient Greece until 3 a.m., when the words
stopped making sense. I placed my head on my
hands as a pillow atop the squeaky springs
and listened to the waking thunder—unable to lay still
until ten minutes before morning, when I had to rise,
even though the sun didn't.
Today, my body aches for stillness that it won’t get
until June. My hair does not give a fuck. The sky
is a spectrum of blacks and grays and my demons
absorb the darkness like Bounty on a milk spill.
I walk upon cracked and uneven roads, still seeing
smiles upon the faces of the neighbors. They hold
their mighty umbrellas high in protection. They are
strong, like storm shelters. They don't let the water damage in,
unlike myself, who sheds a tear with every drop of acid.
I trip into the four walls of this institution. Day after day,
the loop reeks like a rotting grave. I hate this place,
this subject that I’ll never need, these people, this notion
that success rides on a series of letters which translate
to numbers instead of words.
Still, on I go silently into the dull hue of this world,
drowning in God's piss on this mess of a thing I
call home. In this moment, the idea of happiness is none
but a bottomless pit—endlessly searching for shelter in
a cold communal shower.
Today is everyone else's day. More power to them
in their Cabbage Patch expressions centered among
this plethora of constant brain death. I am not alone.
The universe showers with me.