Tonight I'm writing you a poem made of a paragraph. A paragraph because, among other things, lines and stanzas speak of lyrical realities, and my life does not have those. It is an ugly chop of wood with itchy fibers and rotten worms. You see, even my metaphors fail effortlessly. Because five years from now, when I'm a 30 year-old semi-bald swine with yellow teeth, I want to remember this night when my fears only revolve around the allergy on my face, the credit card debt, and losing weight. Gripping the cock of time from point B to point A is a consolation prize. Tonight, maybe there's happiness I refuse to see. Perhaps life is much better.
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