i am tired, sitting outside the
laundromat, of the indifference
so causually given

just exhausted from vagueries, as the line forms for the tapatia, my stomach grumbles

the air is too thick with unspoken
words, as i cannot navigate the
ones actually spoken

an empty bottle of cognac sits, a
mist forming, i am not the only to
sit miserably here

just achingly tired, misunderstood
on purpose or by design, the fool
has gone mute

watching the timer tick tick tick,
playing amatuer exorcist on his
own sultry demons

an isotopical poet, feeling the
half life ending, before becoming
just another disappointment