Sunday, August 14, 2011

Putting on Old Gloves

I still come home to microwaved meals
the wait in front of the computer
while I sip soda at 4AM to the tune in my head titled
"What I'd rather come home to",
a daydream like any sane person has, I'm sure

I chew a cheap, mass-produced chocolate snack
and wash it down with more soda, more cigarette smoke,
I blow across my dinner and it steams like my
nearly extinguished cigarette,
a flash of some nipple I once tasted burns my eyes
and I shut them as if the sun was staring me down
remembering yet another chick who couldn't make the grade
and the teacher I thought I was when I believed in credentials

I'm around the corner and across the hall from a former monster,
but they all agree I should feel something positive,
or learn to forgive others or just shut the fuck up
when it comes to half the reason I'm here at all

I'm taking the pills,
I'm smiling a lot more than I have in some time,
and all I can think about is how full of shit I am
although I'm typing the truth, again, purposefully cryptic
because even if explained thoroughly in stunning detail
I feel we'd all still get it different, and I sit here
feeling crazy,
though I'd be on the side which would win.

I don't think winning is enough