Regression on a Dime

Fear, Internal Poetry, Joylessness, Poetry, Questions

Everyone travels their own path.

But don’t you just have moments where you wish,

That you could slap the fuck out of whatever calamity approaches,

Stop dead in your tracks,

And look backwards to what you knew was better?

What even is better?

Altruism and standards are beautiful practices, sure as hell,

But I miss my addictions.

Turning them down,

Turning her down.

It’s numbing.

I need to cry.

I can’t.

Part of me wants to pour myself into making this up.

Part of me needs to sleep for the leadership summit tomorrow.

I’m hard to turn the other cheek and roll with the punches.

It never gets easier, until you become unfortunate enough to have it become routine.

And by then, what’s the point?

I might as well fall back into my vices,

Self-destruction sings such a sweet etude,

Being failure’s next door neighbor entails flirtation as a constant.

But what if I want to take them home?

I can do bad all by myself,

But it feels better to do worse with others.

There are some depravities I think of often,

But I fear for my safety whenever they slip into my head.

Please, get this loathsome smudge out of my mouth.

Look at me go.

Look at me fall.

What if it was all for nothing?

I must be the coldest ghost.

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