Poetry

Chill Days, 6 (311.)

Jazz is smooth as fuck again,
and some days I wish I could play it,
but even I realize
that’s just half a dream
and I’m content to enjoy this shit
ultra-passively.
I’m not much of a maker,
neither a mover nor a shaker,
but I am a prime enjoyer:
I’ll watch and listen and consume
until I’ve started to bore a
hole in my damn seat.
It’s hard enough
making some kind of way through this world,
so for now I do the best I can
to keep my head above water,
and my hopes
above the grave.
Keep that sweet guitar singin’, Mr. Musician.

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