is there really nothing else to excitement
but the aftertaste of cheap menthol cigarettes,
and the humming of possibility in my stomach,
like a machine which never happens?
my wrists bound by suburban monotony,
i grow apathetic like cress in the dark,
under these systematic cycles vibrating
like songs in a half-life, eyes half-closed,
fatigue of this town mapped out under my eyes,
dates are meaningless, loom in the dewdrops,
a morning is a process, i have become a resource
i would prefer to be written outside.