Just did 125 push-ups
and now drinking a beer
with big tongue, bad breath,
sad gag, broad shoulders,
under gunmetal clouds
in a place I don't want to be.
With impending watery retinas,
weak heart, dying arms,
and thinking to myself that
I don't know what I am doing
anymore.
Anymore is a fun word
especially in my world
of wishes and regrets,
lazy lungs, lazy soul,
knowing I'll probably die soon.
Ribbit, ribbit,
and happy to say that
I am okay with that declaration,
wearing wino shoes,
kicking up memories,
and I want to go to the Bronx Zoo,
but I am afraid of dying again.