In the Library

In the library,
The crippling existential crises
That usually grip me
Do not exist.
The common rages and anxieties
Associated with struggling to be
Someone in their twenties in this day and age
Don’t matter.
The high, heavy ceiling beams
And picture windows
Don’t give a single fuck
About the terrible setup
We got from generations before,
They simply let in the light.
The place simply stands.
A sanctuary.

Snow Day at Work

Looking out the window
At the scene outside
Wrapped in opalescent haze
From heavily falling snow,
A sense of calm washes over me
That I have never felt here before.

The place is cleaner, emptier,
Quieter than usual,
And nobody has bothered me today.

The snow has brought peace.


Lost in a swirl of existential crisis
About the blight on this planet
That is

White, black, red, yellow
All the hues of algae
On this otherwise
Effervescent pond,
Self-important scourge
Destroying it slowly
Every step of the way
For its own benefit, without consideration
For future self-important generations,
Continuing into infinity
Contributing nothing
In the grand scheme of things

The worst part of all
Is that it’s
Encouraged to continue

Floundering in Some Undiscovered Circle of Hell

All I want is a job that

Doesn’t mentally and physically

Exhaust me in exchange for

Zero personal fulfillment


If I could make a living,


Rescuing horses

At least I could look at my

Exhaustion and go

“Wow, these horses are safe

And healthy

Because of me”

Or if I resurrected old houses

To their former glory,

I could look at them and go

“Wow, I preserved a little

Slice of history”


But instead, I

Exchange bits of my health

Physical and mental

For putting things in boxes

For people I will

Never meet and

Being told I need to do it faster and for no show of appreciation

Even though I can feel the spider veins growing and throbbing and the shooting, bright pains in my fingers and elbows from constantly moving my hands, lifting heavy things, for hours on end and

For what??

To keep a rented roof over my head and have something to complain about??

What have I done to deserve having to resort to a place like this for employment?


It’s nine at night

And I’ve already been tired

For five hours.


memory struggles to recall

his face exactly, specific details

and mannerisms

the only solid thing left

is his olive colored


odd how he was once so

all consuming

a crush for the ages

and now i can’t even remember his voice