Drop the Vices

Internal Poetry, Poetry

Every day there’s a new head inflation

Thoughts pump my head up in dread conflagration

It’s self-immolation, breaking down to the wire

Of a boy who could heal if he withstood mental fire.

There’s harm to be found in that which entices,

It’s a hard fucking life when you drop all your vices.

 

Like cue,

Fireball shots sprout to tinder anew,

Out the corner, notifications drive me askew,

My sideloaded sins say “why not swipe a few?”

But few turns to many- sparing minutes to wasteful plenty,

If we can and we might,

Then there’s no hope in our fight.

Rewire our mental maybes and booty-call babies

Into “buy me a boat to float on hard work’s gravy.”

It seems hypocritical from ritual pursuits,

To seek moral quorum in absolutes.

You can’t explain it all on a new binary,

Like you can’t explain a Dwayne Johnson tooth fairy.

But what happens when resolve concaves,

You agree to smaller steps cause your pace was too brave?

If your convicted moral road gets a softer repave?

Does it end up disappointing loved ones, fresh in their graves?

 

Lonely snow starts to fall, time to strap the mukluks,

Make treads, start the glow up of this rough schmuck,

It’s time to decide that you’ve given enough fucks.

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