Brain won’t rest.
Mental marathon runner.
Meds are on holiday,
double-digit doses due by next week.
Alcohol provides the spins
and a limp whiskey dick
that nobody wants anyway.
Drugs deprive you of sleep,
which is already a delicacy in itself.
Second chances.
Third chances.
Seven, eight, nine chances.
Reruns of the same shitty show
resplendent with laugh tracks.
Taken out and played with like an old toy
that provides some sort of fucked up,
nostalgic comfort.
Please let me appreciate,
let me collect dust on the shelf.
The Follies of a Postmodern Xennial 