Every time I catch myself
merely surviving my life
I give myself a metaphorical
slap across the face because
life is hard enough without
giving yourself a say in it.
Yesterday’s hair is still wet
when I wash it and my body
is preparing to wear out due to
longevity and not overuse.
The poems I write come from far away,
long ago, from a life I’ve already used up.
I know what I don’t want, what I don’t like,
what I don’t plan to surround myself with.
So if you’re here, there’s a reason
and if you’re not – you guessed it.
Everything is precarious, as a rule,
because if you’re not living on the edge
you’re taking up too much space.
I feel something standing right behind me
but every time I turn around I’m still alone.
If I need to spend the rest of my life running
I think that’s a pretty good use of my time.
Catch me if you can.