It seems like most days
Existence is a chore more than a blessing,
Like that last breath would suffice as a finale,
As though this chord poured every inch of effort out of me – a whole blues band contained in that note.

Most days it seems like
furiously scrawling slander would cease the dementia, but I know better,
The cumulative nature of this art,
Of any art,
Of life itself,
It’s a drug,
The longer you stick around,
The deeper the hooks sink in,
And even the dying, and maybe moreso,
Cling and ache for just another hit,
Two heartbeats more,
Blood in, blood out,
As though immortality was held in the moments between them,
A history told in mere pulses.

Most days are torn between
Grandeur and worthlessness,
Delusions both,
Giants and windmills,
Tragedies regardless,
Funny, because how else would you handle it?
Funny, but it’s really a matter of perspective,
Caught between crying and screaming,
Punching and kissing,
Hating and missing,
Thankful and harangued,
The hangman and the hanged.

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