cup of joe

It's something else, contrived it seems. A bastard speech, Between you and me. A monologue Or soliloquy. I can't ever speak, What I think. It creeps and seeps, Inside ny head. And will force its way out. Once I'm dead

Letting go. Of things that make your day go. Making it. On your own. Finding what. Could take your place. Holes inside. Left to be fill. Spacious places. Grounded with thrill.

I feel like I've fallen into a puddle. Somewhere along the way, I just couldn't get dry. I've been soaked for days, no maybe weeks. Each path I seek, righteous or meek. Will continue to make, my soul complete.

Several days later, I feel I've lost sleep. There's nothing in the cupboards, And nothing left to eat. The garbage stacks high, There's no room to see. The piles collapse, No air to breath. Global warming the enemy, No way to compete. Humans kind won't move on, No way to compete.