Paper Hands

I will quit
smoking
someday
I'll quit
thinking e-mails are words I'll quit
wishing people love me
for what I think
quit pretending where I live is practical
quit accepting less
quit roaming and trying to
find a job
someday
I'll realize that a calendar
is a time machine
I have quit.

II. no, a song will not abet me
if i use the lyrics to comfort me
afterwards
no, a mistake on purpose
won't attack me if the
consequence is sacrifice
no, a doldrum won't cradle
me if the walls are sexy sea
no, a connection can't include me
if the condition is life.

how many empty stories can a dream maintain?

my mind is a bad neighbourhood.