existential realism

My hand is shaking the key in the lock:

it's not from anxiety, it's because I'm drunk.

Nothing to do with the weather,

nothing to do with the cold,

the shivering up and down my arm

is because I'm home. 

They tell you that money is everything.

"economics"… that's accordant.

i can tell you that that "socio-" is much more important.

If this is my last day on  earth,

then my face has been hiding what I could never dismiss:

"if this were my childhood, 

then as an adult, I should have died many times before this."

Look at my street,

at this house that was to be a home.

This is the American Dream:

to have and to hold. 

But when you're eighteen,

the last of the prodigy

to leave this fucking house,

you will light its groundwork and watch it burn.

You will laugh the entire time.

but you will die,

watch your upbringing again and again;

but every time it will end the same.

protect this house and all who enter.

more like:

protect this hell and give no one shelter. 

poor kids die from guns and violence.

rich kids die from angst and defiance. 

I am wasted.

I need attention.

I want to be birthed from love,

not lustful dissension.