“If you only climb a mountain once a year
you can’t really call yourself a mountaineer…”
gives me a sense of what control must be like
a taste of power with sweet and sour
while hanging on for happy hour.
Noodle arms and stir-fried brain
this place doesn’t feel the same
I’m always too cooked or under-done
embittered by what I’ve not become
how am I supposed to find composure
in the tedium of raw sobriety?
Smoke and mirrors
whats for dinner?
I would eat my own head
if it allowed me to forget
that I am the culmination
of those hapless generations
lost to time and creeping death
I am where the story ends.