I’m still waiting for the epiphany day,
the slump phasing out,
when the self destruction ceases to be so
fascinating.
When I can stop watching my layers peeled away,
amused,
I can
have a reason to get out of bed in the morning,
I can have the feeling back in my fingers my toes my liver my heart my shins again.
Tired of numb. Numb on the mind.
This is not poetry.
Nothing works.
My joints choke with rust, more with each passing grind.
I’m still waiting for the epiphany day.
I might sooner be waiting for the day I die.
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