Tuesday, February 4, 2014

Meetings

Everything seems dull to me
On days like this.
Days when the sun is white
And there's mud tracked on the carpet;
All the goodbooks have been read,
And I am neither rich
Nor well off.
Days like this I might end it all--
If it weren't for the promise
Of what? What do I live for?
The next high gets lower each time.
My enthusiasm for drugs dwindle.
My enthusiasm for sobriety
Is the skip on a record.
Days like this I long for the night.

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