Lets dance mother fucker.

The resin is setting. I haven't seen the impression made any more solid or residual or constant. Point made. Set. Match. Game. Swag. I get it.

I'm looking for something new. It's a drill or a vacuum to get me out of this hole. Living underground smells like the future and feels even more vague. Dear universe,

I've left everything up to you.
Surrendered my tears and my devotion and my angst
into your possibilities.
Can we make out now?
The last time I gave up this much control I at least
got to first base.

I fell. A lot. Too much. I
sat anxiously in stale air and expired feelings,
waiting for my soul awaken from the coma.
The doctors have said there's no hope. Absolutely none.
That I'm brain dead and the only thing keeping me alive
is Ramen noddles and watery insights.
They've been mainlining me poetry and songs and change
and I'm communicating with winks and finger twitching
and I've been working up the strength to learn how to
convince someone to pull the fucking plug.
Medicine isn't the answer anymore.

Dear universe,
Fuck. You.
You mystical unicorn trap.
I want everything back now.
I'll call the cops.
Apologize. Now bitch. Do it.
Say you're sorry. Say it.
I'm not accepting any more subtle
passive aggravating motivation or hollow lessons or
presents for being present.
Those are all broken anyway. You should have wrapped them better.
Say you're sorry. I mean it, I'm turning my back now
and if I count to three and I dont see
a smile on my face or a finish line to this race,
I'm going to give up the rest of this hope.
I've done it before. It wasn't difficult.
It took three seconds to find an escape route,
booby trapped with peaceful sleep and feeling meaningful and right and high
for the time and I dont mind having that ignorance
if it means

I dont have to keep looking up to you for advice.

Make your choice. I'll be right where you left me.
Bed ridden, searching for the new underground,
worms, roots, lack of sound advice to hold my breath
any longer for.

Can we make out now?