The Cold Distant Hope

The poet on the balcony puts the freshly lit cigarette into his mouth and drags deeply. On days like this he begs for cancer.

He remembers a young man with hope on his lily, white-washed brain, he would be one of the free, those who take on the world and win. But now look at this, living in the flat where he was born, with a failed marriage and kids who don’t even call.

He knows better now. He’s in the greater percentage of unfortunates for whom life is just the misery between getting smacked in the arse by a doctor and dying surrounded by strangers you once called family.  Fuck it he could improve the situation right now by just climbing over this rail. 

He never does, like most he prefers to die slow, so he goes back to get his fill of shitty TV, food from plastic containers, and discounted booze. And the ass-hole on the screen makes a joke and the poet laughs cause that’s what’s expected and he laughs until he cries because the whole world is fucking empty.