Two posts emerged on my Facebook,
And sorry I could not peruse both
And be one user, long I stood
And scrolled down one as far as I could
To where it went into a long blockquote;

Then read the other, as just as shared,
And having perhaps the better claim,
Because it was classy and about footwear;
Though as for that the likes there
Had rated them really about the same,

And both that morning equally lay
I believe with no comments written back.
Oh, I kept the first for another day!
Yet knowing how way leads on to way,
I doubted if I should ever tap back.

I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two posts emerged on my Facebook, and I—
I read the one less thumbed-up by,
And that has made all the difference.

The city questions
        the virtue of animals
Islamabad

Emptiness is encapsulating
I don’t want your drugs
I don’t want your help
I want to get worse and worse and worse...
Just a bit lower now
You can do it
A little longer and you’ll do something
You’ll become dangerous
Bleeding for fun
Just to feel something
To wake me from this hellscape

There’s nothing in life
A career is futile
Money is fictitious
My family wants to use me
My friends aren’t there for me
Dogs will age and fade too fast
I’ll always have to be sober again
My faith is nearly lost
(you can’t hear God’s voice when you want to die and your entire being is numb and cold)
There’s nothing to save me now
But the hope that a little more drugs
Will offer enough serotonin
To get through another ******* day

Give me nothing
But time
Everything within

  This wanting to be of something
    And there will be neither writing
Nor ending

   For a summer storm

But combined

      And in giving me a required aim
  When there is sound to be found

And creation to pro

  Then the writing will flow
As if out of a struck desert stone
      And swell

Life at this moment you cant be bullshitting
me. There isn't an April fools that's getting
even close to what we find ourselves hitting
any where near to this.  it's so unfitting.

But no matter the **** hitting the fan,  I haven't got
any bog roll. I can only poo outside before I'm caught.
But leaves are natures wipes and I'm dammed if aught
I'll sleep with skids on my sheets, but if I do I'll just smile.

But underneath I gag as the sweet corn is natures reminder
to wipe before, as they feel like coffee not  put through the grinder.
I feel like crap my legs woefully tanned, not because of the sun,
crap skidding my legs,  as if you lift the sheets its a gross viewfinder.

I just wanna keep drinking cause it feels good
It helps
And I know in the morning it’ll all **** again
But right now
Right now I’d just really like to be a lot less sober than I am