Untitled
The last match had burnt out on my black desk
And left a hole the size of my ex-girlfriend's stretched ear
It fell to the floor and failed to ignite the rough carpet
Below littered with food bags and cat fur
The piles of paper bags soaked in mayonnaise
And ketchup wouldn't tower down like intended
Room smells of onions and gym socks
Like a middle schooler's hockey bag
Four depression naps in the span of six hours
And each time I wake up more nauseous
Afraid of the world and what the nightlife will throw at me this time
Maybe frozen fingertips and hyperthermia
Maybe a drunk cigarette and a new hole in my face
These nights boost my attitude for a slight breeze
That feels like every great summer barbecue
Happy father
Angry mother
Makes Scrib a confused boy
They don't have enough to fix my rotating head and neither do I
"I'll make it!"
I tell myself
Surely enough
I will make it tomorrow's goal
And the next day's goal
I will make it the final year...
I will make it...
Writer/s: Connor Scribner
