Running from an inevitable future,
only a few steps and a hurdle ahead
of failure.
Slips, sprains, broken-hearted dreams,
unbridled debt ditch-deep.
Hair clogs the drain as poor genetics
take up residence like unwanted family.
Bald boys aren’t beautiful.
Future romantic dates require a preamble,
better bring a jacket for the cold shoulder.
Six years too old
for five years of expected experience.
Entry-level every time.
Champion couch surfer, catching waves
on a longboard of neck cramps.
Home-where bound.
Vagabond, drifter, low-rent gypsy.
Bohemian bastard.
A chip off the old southern block.
The Follies of a Postmodern Xennial 