Raise A Glass

Listen to audio recording below! This piece is transcribed for accessibility.

i’m tired.                             

no, seriously i’m fucking tired. 

          (i’ll toast to that.)

fine. pass the wine.

raise a glass to 11:59.

to dreaded time,

never enough of it for the deadline

        for my creative lifeline

          (for my stalls)

for all my procrastination and adhd drawls.

never enough of the stuff for all the ideas 

i have bursting from my brain,

the long chain of unfinished projects.

raise a glass to burn out,

to wanting to shout,

to not being able to get it all out.

raise a glass to anxiety.

to societal compliency,

to masking yourself politely,

to smiling fakely and brightly

at the starbucks barista

while wondering in the back of your mind 

how you’re gonna get your working visa

if you can’t speak german,

but the country you’re in sees you as vermin.

what sick bastard predetermines 

the life we live?

(i don’t know, i no longer go to sermons.)

raise a glass to depression.

to executive dysfunction mattress impressions;

to the unintended

      over-stimulated

    agitated

    vocal aggressions.

to guilt for my muse band obsessions.

                      (there were two song titles right there.)

actually,

raise a glass to guilt for all my obsessions.

to the special interests that don’t pique your interest;

to holding back references until i’m congested,

because clearly you aren’t impressed.

and you’re actually quite stressed

because, clearly you just don’t get it.

                                                            (i tried my best.)

you know what?

raise a glass to guilt in general

to that great, big, visceral feeling

up at night thinking

i can feel myself sinking 

and my skin may be shrinking

memories stinging when you,

you, you, think you might just

one day lose everyone’s trust

because you feel that you may

eventually be thrust back into your old ways

back in the old days:

self-destructing because you starve for your abuser’s praise.

and you still fucking crave that praise:

because you feel your talents that are your only purpose,

all dolled up to be the star of the circus

just take it all and bleed me dry

take my work,

               my love,

                    my life,

           my self,

                my thoughts,

and make me your bad guy

raise a glass to not shutting up.

to those around you having enough,

to beating yourself up,

to being stubborn and unable to cheer up,

even though your name in polish means buttercup.

                                      (oh the irony.)

raise a glass to feeling stupid.

to feeling self-secluded but

needing connection,

love and affection,

yet having an objection

to someone who’s perfection 

because you don’t know how to handle 

nice things because your mind is in shambles,

used to being played with the precision of a bowstring

and now you’re practically clinging to a string,

on your last thread,

filled with existential dread,

deadlines, metaphorical landmines, 

mental declines, impossible climbs,

did i mention deadlines?

and hanging by a thread?

i think i need to go to bed

i’m tired.