The Internets Slow Here

Searching all the opportunities out there

Scrolling past the majority of the them

In warm amber light

In homes made from wooden beams and planks

Decking and floorboards

The browns, ambers, and golds in various glasses

None of that really matters though

Because I’m looking at the long haired hippy’s lips

The one that’s a writer too

The one that’s a writer too

Depression

He says

Some of the best work is written while depressed

I know

Or at least in those moments of hopelessness

The pen

Is the only thing that makes me feel alive


The yellow bellied hippy

His long natty hair

His smile and the crows feet around his eyes

We all know that he isn’t alright

Or perhaps its just me

That I know the look behind those eyes

Void of color, void of light

And still I fear

He is a better writer than I

I look at the flaming meteor

The thing that burns so bright before me

Perhaps it’ll keep burning forever

In some regards it may do just that

And I wonder if I would rather

Die young yet burn a hole through the page

Than to live so long, fizzle and fade

Being strangled by regret and dying from old age

 

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