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Personal Note:

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Poem

Lola's fingers tremble 'round her beads,
    Her lips move, soundless prayers;
        While outside, weeds
        Push through cracked leads—
    Life finds a way, who cares?

I can't grasp their dread of death,
    This urge to bargain, plead;
        Each day's a breath
        Of joy, of meth—
    Why beg for more to heed?

What bugs me most: they're wasting time,
    Eyes fixed on pearly gates;
        While church bells chime,
        They miss life's prime,
    As if it's heaven that waits.

They're blind to now—the pub's last call,
    A friend's impromptu gig
        The night's free-fall,
        Some stranger's sprawl
    Moments both small and big.

I want to yell, "Oi! Look alive!"
    But who am I to judge?
        They'll strive and strive,
        Half-dead, half-alive,
    While I down another fudge.

So let them pray, let them dream,
    Of some grand aftershow;
        I'll take ice cream,
        Watch a Dota 2 team,
    And all this messy now.

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