“Sometimes you climb out of bed in the morning and you think, I'm not going to make it, but you laugh inside — remembering all the times you've felt that way.”
― Charles Bukowski
I smoke, but I’m trying to quit.
a death wish retreat,
a promise of pain
yet to come.
and what of the cells in this body?
broken boards and loose hinges,
it could be the perfect home
one day. I’m convinced I’ve already found him, but I opened my door just enough
for the light to hit
the smallest wall.
I blamed myself
when it closed, as I should.
if self sabotage is a victory
then there shouldn’t be this feeling
when I grab the things I’m offered.
who can say this isn’t a beginning of something greater?
I know nothing about stopping the spin,
but I can tell you this
what left your head reeling once
takes seconds to start it cycling again.
that may be a warning or a promise.
I’m not sure which,
so I’ll give until I have nothing left.
I pour it into others.
forgetting we’re all part water
and I dive and swim
hoping to reach your shore,
but I find a wall instead. I won’t give up. I swear to you this;
I’ll keep going as long as I can tread,
and one day I’ll find a grip for my hands
or I’ll drown.
either way you won’t see my back turn, sights set on a sun
that I’ll never reach.