in some ways we still live in the garden
asked to make decisions on things we don’t know about
and to accept the repercussions
then banished for following foreign thoughts and feelings

i think, as i round the corner to your house
suddenly lost and talking to myself in languages i don’t understand
i decide to stop looking for anyone and sleep on the curb
fever dreams of drug filled mansions and the ability to fly

since god won’t love me and i can’t read street signs
i decide to recoil into myself

in many ways we live in a purgatory of sorts
where happiness sits at the end of a tractor pull
and we feel different on the inside every morning
but look like day-walking zombies

i eat and shit and laugh and cry alone
even moreso when others are around me watching
thoughts of suicide-by-apathy filling my
mind and following me around in my dream-

when something is lodged in your airways
you can’t breath even if you try