Ate bad stuff. Gained weight.
Hate myself. Still, I think, There’s
always tomorrow…
Over the holidays
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Ate bad stuff. Gained weight.
Hate myself. Still, I think, There’s
always tomorrow…
I quit my job to
work on my haiku blog. Chance
of millions, slim / none.
Drops by at four, raids
the fridge, toasts unhappy hour
to his firing squad.
Once her nest, now a
museum to her old self.
Home is elsewhere.
Looking back I find
this old friend, written record
for the world to view
Held back by your tight
seventeen syllable leash,
I write elsewhere now.
Shivering at the
airport. Colder than O’Hare.
Turn back, refund flight.
Bright summer days no
friend to sadness. Solace lies
in winter’s dark chill.
Strands layered, length chopped,
I change, shed years, fears, regrets.
Why’d I wait so long?
We discuss the soul,
ponder death’s postlude, then choose
the happy ending.