modern myth

What

Am I going 

To do

With my life,

I cannot eat

Properly timed

Poetic verses. 

I cannot drink the stars or the night sky

But I still find

Plenty of time and couch coins for

Whiskey. 

I would make a 

Journey underneath the world,

Play my lyre,

In search of a 

Sustainable and

Lucrative career. 

Bonus points if I find one that doesn’t

Require a sacrifice of soul. 

So definitely nothing in 

Marketing. 

I don’t know how to survive or maybe

I know exactly how to be a 

Twenty-something with

Nothing to my name except an

Already strained marriage

To a man who expected 

A better person on the other

End of the line, a softer, a

Kinder, a more aware

Adult of some kind I have

Not yet found. 

So I said

Fuck that

And carried on. 

Sorry, I can only be the 

Girl who drinks too much,

Stays up and then sleeps too late,

Leaves the dishes in the sink,

Leaves her socks and wadded 

Underwear on the floor,

Who sleeps naked and 

Not daintily. 

Soon I will be

Thirty something and still have

No fucking clue 

Where I’m going, whether I’ll ever 

Retire or just starve to death, 

Die of old age with nothing to my name but

One failed marriage and probably 

Dogs left to run wild,

Fend for themselves, feast on

Garbage and babies cast aside and

River water, who will howl at the moon

With their feral hearts, with 

blood on their faces, who will

Sleep on my unmarked grave, who will

Still hear my heart beating

Underneath. 

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