Rings around the empty parking lot,
sheltered in fog, away from the daily grind.
Pockets full of old receipts and shattered dreams,
sentimental fragments we haven’t cleaned out yet.
Pass the pipe, forget the night, ashes to ashes
all our lives are falling down the drain.
Once in a while
the old me will resurface
and gasp for a few breaths
of smothering insanity.
But then I’ll push her aside
and lend my mind to smoke
and ignore all the pain
I used to create in my head.
I used to always assume that working minimum wage full time was so dissatisfying. You work, you sleep, you work some more. You don’t feel, you don’t think, you don’t care.
But now it’s just a really nice break from everything and I kinda don’t mind it at all. I’m happy?
To fly through residential streets in a beat-up, hand-me-down sedan
and then collectively cuss out the windows
when the over-worked engine sputters up an incline
and we lose our lead on another friend’s equally shitty car.
To clock out at the closing shift in a mob, laughing and finally awake,
swing our limp polos (last washed 3 months ago) over our shoulders
and walk out of our self-induced prison to the dim parking lot.
We all pile into the biggest car: “Who’s got the weed?”
To blast terrible music through the night air and nod our heads
"This song is the shit, man." And we’d keep bumpin those shitty tracks
and inwardly imagine our life as a cheesy movie, these moments
these songs, these memories flowing together perfectly.
To wonder aloud what life is, when life starts, what we want to do with it
as if it hasn’t happened yet. As if we’re all still waiting for life to start.
And not even realizing that between the minimum wage shifts
and the puffing and passing, this is it. This shit is life.