These dreams, these fiends, these tweens and cut scenes,
Expectations of momentum and necessities of a spleen.
These winter Monday’s in June are reminiscent of a fifth quarter.
Should I slay myself again or ask a bigger God to expand my borders?
These sorrowed nights and broken glass and drafts from underneath,
Give greater cause to perpetuate and strive for more than just to be.
Oh, these falls, these stalls, these empty halls and caterwauls,
Apprehension’s got me hopeful, while my bladder has the gall.
