Write another poem to myself and wait for the veins to stop popping in my forehead. It’s not another panic attack but it’s a debacle. Something to be foreshadowed on dewy midnight trains where the bugs hang onto life just like I have been with this roller coaster called life.
Ups and downs and no real target in foresight. I wish I would’ve done it sooner. Spiralized chain fuming off the incense. My wish came true.
