Day to Day Poetry

#65

Wish I could still be pre-drinking,
and make it to a crowded place, limping
from high heels that tipple, short skirts riding
up to lace thongs worn proudly for a night,
lost in the morning,
fog in the mirror, birds singing, sunlight streaming
through a stranger’s window,
chaotic events memorialized in poetry
a few days later, smudged eyeliner
in an empty coffee house, amidst broken leather chairs,
torn out pages from a book with highlighted passages
meant for re-reading and then never re-used again –
to be happily snuggling into my blankets,
and take out my phone to capture a selfie worth posting,
assured people are scrolling through their feed and pausing,
appreciating,
what I put out for them –
wishful thinking, endless wanting
for validation from
people I don’t even care about,
to be working a 9 to 5 job and doing things I despise
just so I can come home to an apartment I can undoubtedly pay for –
and not worry about making ends meet or living
from paycheque to paycheque –
give up passion for a steady stream of breakfast, lunch, dinner
without having to compromise on health,
not having to rely on chemicals to ease that monster anxiety, peacekeeping,
serenity achieved through the purest of means,
instead of this day to day surviving,
battling every morning  when it’s the last thing I ever want to do,
debilitating.

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