022p: sick of it

i’m sick of living on 174th
sick of feeling in the shadow
of those i should be kin to.
sick of wasting years
locked in depression
and anxiety. i long
to grasp the clouds with
warm fingers and palms
stretched. they say that
tall men die sooner than
short men. my life expectancy
is 64. 30 years left. 30 years
to find something to
hold onto and someone
to hold onto it with.
i’m sick of hating the
brunt of my day. sick of
hating myself. tired of
finding meaning.
i make the meaning.
i make it now.
i foster it and i coddle it
and i whisper things to it
that i would never say
out loud. i am encrusted
in depression, and breaking
through requires immense
pain and pushing.
i will push. i will pain.
i will watch the sunrise
for leisure instead of
from a MAX train to work.