right after reading a poem about death.
While most 43-year-olds
are talking about investments
or taking ozempic,
I am battling.
Suffered through a cover band
while sipping club soda at a bar
in which all the ghostly patrons
have nothing but bad Bon Jovi
and buffalo wings.
I have a bed and a blanket
and that blanket has it's own blanket,
a far better cry
than these bastards
without saints.
Despite decorating my decaying body with ink,
I still feel like a kid in my heart,
half a mile between
these people and those people.
Hell's first whisper
is a question about Heaven.