It’s Monday,

No, maybe it’s Tuesday,

Scratch that, it has to be Friday by now.

I don’t know anymore, and if I’m being really honest, I don’t care.

I can’t keep track of my days.

Everything blurs together. Everything is the same.

What is the point?

Why do I open my eyes every MondayTuesdayFriday?

To eat Cheerios and attempt to fight the inevitable death I will face in time?

To smile at the air, at the ground, at strangers whose mouths turn up and down robotically?

To type letters in sequence we declare “words”?

Are they supposed to mean something?

If you say a word enough, your brain realizes you’re not making sense.




Does it still look okay to you?




How about now?

It’s lost its meaning to me.

Everything has lost its meaning to me.

Do I open my eyes every MondayTuesdayFriday to do sit ups in hope for a “summer body”?

To impress you?

To impress me?

To impress God?

I know by that look of disdain, you could not care less.

I, myself, am unimpressed,

And nobody can impress God.

So what is the point?

I live in this state of uncertainty, of blurriness, of never knowing what day it is, and I feel ill in this MondayTuesdayFriday place in which I reside.


The Boy In The Hat

Sometimes I see people and I know I have to write them down on paper somewhere. You were one of those people from the first time I saw you, but I couldn’t find the words to write you out until now.

You see, I often thought I hated you, but still I empathized with you; the dark grey boy in a superhero hat, smoking like a chimney by the brick building, matching the weather with your bitter mood. You never looked happy out there, or inside, or anywhere.

You always waited until the last second to get out of your car, to light up your smoke, to enter the doors. You stood on the sidewalk with your back turned to the rest of us, to protect yourself, I think.

I had this thought that maybe you wouldn’t smoke if people would talk to you, instead of about you.

I wondered if you’d be less mean if you weren’t stuck playing defence; but the whispers started as soon as you walked in, and I understood why you’d raise your voice to silence them.

You weren’t as bad as everyone said.

Just a declawed kitten with a lion’s roar, and a soft heart with an electric fence around its core.

Thoughts From A Coffee Shop — Thoughts #5



None of it matters.

We talk so loud,

All we want is to be heard, to be listened to,

But it falls on deaf ears.



I want to vanish.

I wonder what it’d be like to disappear, to get up and go somewhere,

To be anywhere but here,

But alas, I have things to do and people to love,

So I remain.



In this body,

In my home,

In my decisions,

By my phone,

Under your thumb,

Under the gun,

Under everything bigger and scarier than me,

Under the sun.