nine years
since i opened
the manic word depot
which makes this
the longest commitment
i have maintained
besides fatherhood
in an entirely too
bipolar lifetime

probably because
i am the only one
in charge of this
cathedral to ruin

daily therapy sessions
from a dime store philosopher
realizing the older he gets
the worse his state of mind
continually spirals
no longer a shattered mirror
but an accurate reflection
on the state of the world

it sounds nicer
to say poets grow more
nostalgic as they age
shining up sepia tones
to reflect a better time
i think it’s more about
clinging to obsessions
with gnarled hands
which lose strength
on frigid mornings alone
the could have been
which haunt our souls

listening to a curated list
of ween on repeat
biding my time until
an overstressed artery pops
and it all goes mercifully

silent