At Very Least

When I'm no longer fascinated by my tattoos,
When my dogs are making my life filthier,
and covered in hair,
When the best books have no savour,
When every song is bankrupt,

There's no fulfillment
Only stress, and striving
to death and a question mark.
They'd probably eat me
if I died here and now.

When work isn't an anxiety attack
or a black hole
or a way to feed myself;
Just something to do.

A little time with others
is the punchline to the joke
of the other ninety-five percent of life.
Like sorrow is the spearhead
but hope
is the six feet of oak that drive it home.

And love...well, nevermind.

Cooking is irritating
Eating just waste of time
Cleaning is pointless
Staying warm not worth it

Self improvement stinks of fallacy
and all the good advice
I ever took or gave
finds the stumbling block
of insurmountable self.

The words of my cynical
and callous favourites
mount in my soul
into something I wrote
better than they did.

"We are the lucky ones, my dear."

To get to live,
and love,
and hate,
and hurt.
To get to be here at all.
To see and hear and all.

And I thank every book I ever read
For my rational brain.

Because I know things
that I don't feel.