Poetry

The Fall, 14 (258.)

It was almost time
for the midnight water,
and the filtration pitcher
was full and ready.
I didn’t need a cup, though,
’cause my trusty water bottle
still had a few good swigs
left inside.
So I swig them now,
a little after midnight,
and I fudge the title
so this poem still counts
for the fourteenth day
of September.
I’ll write for the fifteenth day
in an hour or two,
and have two poems
out within the same
24-hour stretch.
Sometimes, this is how
a “poem-a-day” endeavor
looks: squashed, rushed,
but never shushed,
for this is all about expression.
My inane thoughts pile up,
like rickety towers,
and you may peruse them
floor by wobbly floor.
I try not to be too pretentious,
but sometimes
I think I can’t help it.
But I know that many of my poems are shit.
I write them anyway,
because I promised myself
that I would.
The year plods on,
circumstances get a little worse,
on a macro level,
hell,
on a micro level too.
I’m doing okay,
but I know
there are little pieces of me
that come off every time I
drink coffee after sundown
and play video games
until sunup.
I’m so sorry, tired soul –
I promise, we’ll get consistent
one of these days.

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