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One A.M.



I’m ready to blow my fucking head

clean off my shoulder,

and I don’t care who knows it.

It’s not very poetic, I know.

I am tired of this general malaise

that characterizes my every action,

my every thought, and deed.

I am sick of myself, and all those

ill-advised

commitments I made so many years

ago.

But yet, I doubt there is a bullet

large enough

to wipe away my regret and guilt


both of which are unexceptional

to anyone but myself.

I blame no one by myself for

the state I am in;

I made this Faustian bargain,

and should have

never expected anything less.


A poem should put forth a problem,

and then present a solution.

Unfortunately,

I do not know the latter.

Dear J Hillenburg,

You know how to relate your feelings onto paper. It appears your poems are present tense, and I sincerely hope you're okay. Writing is a safety valve that's gotten many through such times. I again sincerely hope that this is the case with you. Keep writing.

~ Elizabeth