I want to stay young,
but I keep growing old.
I want to be good,
but I just keep stealing photographs
from the bath.
The good fight is long gone,
and I am left holding the gun,
shells strewn in the snow,
my shoeless feet cold,
because of the uncertainty to come.
I am just a shitty Peter Pan,
but with beard and tattoos,
shitty poems and the blues.
My bastard youth left me in a lurch
last year or the year before that
or the year before that.
By now I am numb
to the thought of it all,
the universe and my place in it,
and I forgot how to fly,
because even happy thoughts
don't work in the foul year, 2016.
I am just a shitty Peter Pan,
and that's okay, I guess.
The blood is already dried,
and I have already died twelve and a half times,
but my heart is still beating,
and my mouth is still eating,
and sometimes I dance.