Cold metal,
round spot grips,
my work stairs.

Remember the smell
of your most stale,
your most flat beer ever?
That is I, flat beer.

January 19th, and
New Year’s goals,
flatlining, one to not hate
on myself so much,
but how not to hate
when failure
is so loud,
so early in the game,
before a penalty
can even be called.

At least I’m writing,
again.
The most shitty kind,
but I’m writing.
And I’m working so hard,
I forget how to write,
but I’m so good
at being worthless,
tallyho.