There is a sort of nostalgia to remembering what I could have done,

and of course the things I should have done.

A nostalgia to remember what I thought I would be.


“I hate microbiology.”

I hope I did well on the microbial physiology exam.

Something I never would have been,

it’s cute, the childlike

picture drawn by kids on a base of rifted representation.

What Picasso captured,

in spite of himself.

Too many things I never checked off the

waiting list to the other university, unanswered, maybe, no.

The imagination is a powerful thing. So is the mind, and

the body. Mortal enough to drag Prometheus down

sick sick sick.

The inevitable of course.

The eats up hope.

I used to be an optimist

now I just don’t give a shit

I walked two miles home the other night dark muggy, do what

has to be done. Very far away.

So I don’t imagine the future now

don’t give a fucking shit–

steal me that how not to care, rob it from my gods.

Sisyphus. Fail an exam again

it’s okay I have eternity until whatever.

Hope crumbled melted under

quiet silent

blaze of Icarus.

Dragon wings.

Tear me the stolen fire of the mortals.

Throw me down from the heavens.

Take my blood.

It’s scary, isn’t it. Watch.

Snap the lighter and lick the fire on my tongue.

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