Misery is a small white room,
my God, I could sleep for a thousand years.
I cannot live my life singing songs in exile;
unfinished poems will be my undoing.
I’ll take the whole shebang,
take my time, take a break.
Of course I am pleasantly surprised by
the perfect poison of satisfaction.
Scrappy faces and half-forgotten daydreams,
birthday candles and last words.
I remember fast drives in the darkness, and praying:
God help the girl, she needs all the help she can get.