September 9th, 2020

I've been living the same day—
Same window locks,
and small talk at the corner store.
And the same walk back to the apartment
to keep toiling over what it feels like I'm being punished for.

Then I woke up to no prison guards.
Split for the train.
It turns out you can run from god,
and it ends up the same.

It's circadian rhythm—
Vitamin D pills, a knock-off Eames chair, knock-off songs.
And the sky's inverted, like an alarm.
I'll bike back from On the Bridge,
wondering what it feels like I did wrong.

Then I woke up to no prison guards.
Stumbled out in a haze.
It turns out you can run from god,
and it ends up the same.

I got a paintbrush in ice called hormetic stress
I wanna see used.
"Have a small plot of new land at all times,"
now I know that I need to.

I got a paintbrush in ice called hormetic stress
I wanna see used.
"Have a small plot of new land at all times,"
now I know that I need to.