Inertia
Inertia burns like spinach gunk.
Sludge and the things we like.
Everything is spit out horribly.
Like spitting out pie at Thanksgiving on the table.
Inertia waves its way through,
Tunnels that we made for ourselves.
Inertia should be stillness.
But that’s not nothing at all.
What we think is stillness is actually a grain of rice that came to life.
Angry.
Hits like roller skates came loose.
Baited like a wooden statue made of dog treats.
Empty like someone who counts the flecks of gold that don’t exist.
Inertia burns like spinach gunk.
I wish I was more than a rotten apple chunk.
Useless like sandpaper strips in the ocean.
Or a ruler in a pig pen.
I have enough money to count on today.
And no energy to spend anyway.
So maybe I’ll be rotten on an imaginary throne.
When really, I just want pizza alone.
But that pizza guy doesn’t want to see me anymore.
And the toxic smell is making me sore.
Inertia.
One of those things that allows me to sleep all day.
But doing so boldly and kindly.
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