I feel like a wet stubbed out cigarette
Short squat, full of nothing of actual use
And I can see my mind puddling before me on the floor
Too many hours of poetic analysis mixed
With the overzealous application of drugs and psychotherapy
To lull me into a subversive state
And I am conjuring up numbers in my head
Answers to the complex equations that real world struggles search for
And my mother sits downstairs on her phone
After going to war with the world
Talking to my father and sitting at the kitchen table
Fake fluorescent lighting illuminating the missing family
And I sit in my room hunched over my computer
A glass of milk in front of me
And there is always cake