A little too familiar...

Bukowski binge, post-Oct.

I swear I have high blood pressure
and high cholesterol.
People say, "Jesus Coll, you're only 22"
rolling eyes
unto which I will reply:
F**k you.

House; dusted tomb
mismatched trinkets that would make
a thousand Polish ladies cry
in joy. (Sorry mother. truth.)
All of us
rotting corpses who live
existing only to exponate (I don't give a s**t if that's a made up word)
misery upon one another.

I b***h about your drinking,
I have another beer.

I dream of losing ten pounds and fleeing
to Oregon
or somewhere that is seemingly
organic.

I want to tear up these roots and leave
weed patches.

I dream of smashing skulls like over-ripe
cantaloupes.

I want to see this hurt personified
in you.

Thank gods, or rather their doctors... 

for Xanax.