days are

days are like this sometimes

when you get home and sit
you can't remember
the mood when you left
it might be too much to know
that you left the house happy
ready to face anything
and returned not wanting
to leave until you're dragged out
long after you're dead

days can get this way

where you find yourself writing
poems where you die
then rot
and i wonder back and forth
is it just me
and my brain cells
my chemistry and bio
the genes and hormones
and parts of me
under microscopes

or is it outside

is it the things hermits hide from
on a day to day basis
is it a society of strangers
and a modern culture whiplash
is it selling yourself for a job
and a piece of hanging on
is it- that the only good
five second conversation
was with the begger on the street
who was in it for a nickel
is it the pretending i don't want to cry
on the corner in this city

is it neither is it both

or the spirit that i've lost
my godforsaken meltdown
godforsaken in the literal sense
and it's me that's done foresaking
replaced god with the absurd
because in and out it's the only thing
that makes sense
when sitting in my old dead grammma's chair
and never wanting to leave
it's been a day like this
a damn you day like this
and days are,

days are sometimes- like this