I’m older now,
exactly eight seconds older
than before I began this poem.
And in the time it took
to begin and reach here,
I’m now both older and wiser.
Older because
well…
frankly, that’s how time works.
And wiser because
I now know that not everything I do—or think—
is interesting enough to write a poem about.
I drank a beer first thing yesterday morning because the night was dark and full of terrors and I’m still frightened and, frankly, upset at just how God awful that final season of Game of Thrones was.
I suppose you think I’m talking about the President of the United States of America, but I’m not. Because this feels more important than the 16th President, the Proclaimer of Emancipations, the Addres
Because so I cry sometimes for no reason at all other than that when I had a reason to I felt as if I couldn't.
