in the time of daffodils,
fed up with Instagram,
still figuring life out
even at 34 and 6/8.
I'll be lucky to hit 70,
so this means
that it is all half over,
but I am no gambling man,
and I used to be more pessimistic.
What's the point
of these poems
if you aren't ever
gonna change your mind?
Was it worth it all?
Who's to say
at this point,
and I don't know
what else to say,
especially in the time of dandelions.
It hasn't gotten easier,
I wonder if it ever will
and yet I don't want to forget,
because that may mean
we never will.
I will be hungry
in the time of old flowers,
fed up with everything,
still figuring life out
a year from now.