WHERE I AM
My feet are dirty, I am thirty, and I don’t know
what I am supposed to do before
Pen to paper, ink to brain
tell me what you want
My finger is cut, my face is bleeding
I’m laying in bed drinking
coffee in the morning.
If time is an illusion, so is death
since we never stop and it never ends
I’m inside the same second I was
when I started.
October 19, 1987, 3:39pm