I know some punk rock poems
about grief and loss,
but I also know some hip-hop songs
about faith in the future,
and my brain is moshing between them,
thrashing in the pit of
do more, be more, fix everything now.
The rent is due,
the world is burning,
the doctor’s appointment got rescheduled,
I forgot to call my sister back,
the economy is collapsing (again?),
I should probably stretch more,
drink more water,
delete social media,
start journaling,
be better, be better, be better.
There’s a jackhammer attack to all of this,
a rapid-fire pounding of
wake up, check in, freak out, repeat.
Am I doing enough?
Am I making the right moves?
Is this what it means to live,
or just to survive?
And yet, in the middle of the noise,
life keeps slicing through—
the sun hitting just right on my morning coffee,
a stupid joke that makes me snort-laugh,
a song I forgot I loved coming through cheap speakers,
someone texting just because.
Maybe the world is a runaway train,
maybe I’m just hanging on,
but in the chaos,
there are these brief, cutting moments,
reminders that I am here,
I am alive,
and for now—
that’s enough.