Increasing gravity pulls
towards a green chair
towards the tattered wall and the torn couch
on which I rest my wasted days away.
Hours that do not make sense
hours that I use to lean upon
and wait for tomorrow.
Next year will always be better.
goals planned out label my tinted eyes.
nights spin out from beneath me
leaving a scented trail
of cigarette smoke
and the seventh sip of courage
that stings.
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