it’s eleven thirty
on new year’s eve
and i am laying here
staring at the ceiling
doing my best to
pretend the things
that bother me
actually do not
a fool’s quest for
blissful ignorance
as the clock ticks
ever nearer to twelve

i used to celebrate
get hammered with friends
ring in the new year
with a hangover and
a new resolution to
not do that again
but i am a slow learner
part of my charm
and i did it until
my crazy got to be
more than i could
subject people to
so now i give space
even when i need close
because i smother
everything i love with
my shifting polarity

so it’s eleven thirty
and my heart feels
as if it is pumping
a poisonous sludge
and i cannot figure out
how exactly i did it
but all i know is that
i did it once more
and i don’t give a fuck
about the next day
i just don’t want to
have to feel like this
for the entire new year

one last scab torn
free before the date
clicks incrementally
on into the next one
my resolution should be
to not be such a
rotten fucking mess
but it will be for my
loved ones to always
know how much they mean
just as impossible when
i don’t know exactly
how i will feel tomorrow

a peculiar man with
hyperbolic tendencies
alone, except for the words
yet always finding
the wrong ones to say