neurotic night owl

i couldn't believe i was still awake and

talking to the walls.

i mean, slurring at best.

maybe it's time for a new therapist.

too much effort spent trying to move forward in life

when backwards is the only direction the compass reveals...

*

they all had terrible poker faces too.

them, with their shiny halos and fake

laughter.

though, my family pretends to be on my

side when I say:

~the world is to blame for my every fault~

i've listened to it, trying to decipher the

attitude it speaks in, but fail every time...

*

together, we solved the meaning of grief itself before

the sky became a soggy mess.

endless thoughts with no merit may be the

culprit, and results may vary, but I always

manage to start the day with a plan.

and boy, does it ever rain.

rains so much, my fingers aged a

dozen years.

didn't care, though.

only gave me a glimpse of the future.

*

why doesn't boredom ever visit me?

whether it's true lies or the end of humanity,

the wheels turn too fast...

add Ozempic days and juniper nights,

and this tipsy soul is having an endless

tug-of-war with reality.

the answer is cos I rarely tire of talking to myself.

it's my recipe for disaster—tired tropes that apply,

but requires the skill of a narrator willing to become

reliable.

*

But yet, I was still thinking.

eyes bloodshot, didn't know where sleep was hiding.

all I could hear in the back of my

head was the procession of

rhetorical questions leading the brigade,

marching nowhere and

everywhere all the same.

maybe it is time to sleep.

at least when I'm sleep,

I don't have to think so much about

sorting through all the plot holes in my

brain.