the only chance i have of saving my life is if the irs or whatever government agency deals with tax returns deposits mine in my bank account by saturday

wash your hands.
you're fucking filthy.
tangling yourself by spinning
a web of doing the same activities
every day.

you don't speak any more because
your mouth has become a gaping wound
that hasn't been tended too for too long,
so it's sutured closed and silent
to stop the spread of infection.

and there isn't much left to do
except wait for the
inevitable to come.
that bus is on it's way.

you dream of burning houses and robbing banks.
but you don't and never will.

surviving when your
life is in pieces
trying to put it back together
with glue and a keen eye,
but you always been terrible at puzzles.

and today you'll be told something,
which tomorrow you'll forget to do.

you don't know if you'd rather travel back
to the past or forward to the future
but right now anything is better than the present:
waking up to an oversize man talking about
how the government is poisoning the water supply
with all different types of shit and it's safer
to be drinking from puddles,
how rocky balboa was actually gay,
and how a cup kentucky fried chicken's gravy
is actually healthier than a bottle of that kombucha juice shit.
to which you say, "what?"
as you try to figure out something that will resemble
a relative response
until you realize
you are in your car
all alone.
it's 10am.
you can't feel your toes
anymore
cause of the cold.
so you have to turn the heat on,
which will cut into your
gas,
money,
and
future drug supply.

you close your eyes
while smoking a cigarette
before trying to fall back asleep,
get up,
get money,
meet your dealer,
get well,
go to work,
wash your hands.
repeat.

you've already accepted you've lost your mind.