with thoughts of UI/UX bullshit
to be confidently forgotten by Tuesday's midnight,
and here I am, eating bacon
and banging this shit out
before breakfast but it all has me dead.
at the heart of every confrontation
is love or lack thereof,
so how did we get here, my dear?
in the name of poetry, I write my sins
and include yours for torment and teaching.
I schooled youngsters last week
about putting down their phones
writing poetry and making Katharine Hepburn's brownies.
what are your hopes for 2018?
mine consist of happiness and forgetting,
but not forgetting to be happy,
especially on Monday mornings
when I am hung over and bleeding
from an unknown wound
but still carrying on like a goddamn badass.