You awaken to the alarm clock’s incessant tug,
a daily bug up your ass that tells you it’s time
to start over and face the world anew.
It’s  just you (it’s always just you)
who begins the day the exact same way:
brewing a pot of liquid motivation,
dressing for your dreams of success,
and holding hope that expressing your heart
in the guise of poetic ponderance
will exorcize the demons buried deeply
in the center of your tired psyche.
You might be too old for this shit,
but it beats the alternative, so you live
one day at a time and you never mind the burden.
Some days are like that; some days are better.
Let her dictate the dance and take your chances
while you still have the gumption. Your major
malfunction is that you wouldn’t be in this position
if you didn’t have the heart for it. You use your poet
words to both curse the darkness and shed your single light
on unsuspecting souls. It’s you who controls the emotion,
your iambic devotion to the process gives you
strength to battle the elements that surround you;
should it confound you, than you’ll be no worse
that the rest of the populice. A cathartic release,
a “do as you please” attitude that will serve you well.
What the hell, you were built for days such as these.



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