JC

Jesus Christ,
There’s nothing up there
but the sensation of falling
and there’s nothing down here
but a sick urge to rise.
I want to float to the top
Be the cream of the crop,
But there’s nothing in me but abstract misery.
And I can’t paint, I can’t write music.
My words can’t piece it together.
I’m vaguely aware that
I’m self aware.
Existential moments in the bathroom mirror
too much alcohol and handful of pills.
When he stares back, do you feel that?
I’m putting my shoulder to the wheel
but the traffic is slow and the
gloves are off, I’ve got nothing
Beneath the seat but empty bottles
And half arsed promises. I can’t
write worth a shit
But I can wind the window down.
I can feel God’s breath on my neck and
Watch the clock tick second by second,
as life drips down the drain.
I pick up another pay slip and
it rains without shame.
There’s plenty of fish in the sea,
but you’re not near the ocean,
you’re in the front seat, the
traffic is wrapped.
There’s nothing on the road signs
but places you can’t reach and turns
you can’t make.