Bad Days

i've written this before
and i know that you just
long to love and be loved

i'm not saying that you can't
or, that no one will
but, you don't
and no one does

Dying Slowly in Iambic Pentameter (or not)

of all the bullshit i write
and think about, mercilessly
it seems the truest thoughts
are the most fleeting

this is especially true
when i think about my dad
and my brother
and my uncles and relatives
slowly drinking themselves
to death

there's this thought that creeps in
right as i go to sleep
that their fate
is the same as mine
only, i am sober

but as sure as i'm
wasting my time writing this
fucking poem
some day i will sit
in a recliner chair
and with a tumbler full
of whiskey
i will close my eyes
and breathe in
one last time