Not hungover, not particularly in shambles or anything of the sort. Simply feeling rotten and worried about the many things you’re under pressure to do and be a part of. The many thoughts and feelings you have that you so desperately try to repress. It doesn’t help to bottle it up. It helps to let it go. Try not to shake the bottle though, lest the contents explode. That would make a mess.
Sure to be Dying
Roiling, riling, writhing in my gut
A pit’s been dug, just for the bodies
Found myself in quite the rut
They’ll find me, they’ll find you
Always searching, one and two
Always looking for something new,
Something evil to do
Sick to my stomach
Try to find that thing I still lack
It feels like flying
Though we’re sure to be dying
It hurts like hell
As bloated midsection swells
Ain’t it swell?
The stories of great evil that it tells
Poems by Sam 