Too Little, Too Late




So her day starts at 2 a.m.
She begins to clutch at her chest
While her room still fresh
Fresh from the roasted scent of incessantly inhaled cigarettes
Her lungs were severe
Somehow pain managed to squeeze between it
The pain continued to squeeze and severe as her lungs did



Then she shouts in a boisterous manner
“This is fucking mad!”
“This is fucking mad!”
“This is fucking mad!”

Her statement ricochets over the dirty walls out the window
The dogs responded nonetheless



She continues with a vague hollering
While the pain insufferable
She folds
But the pain continues to pierce
She groped
Hoping for a glass of water
The least thing she needed wasn’t even there
This was a sign that she would die alone

Alone with the lovely couch
Alone with the shitty stacks of pirated vcd’s
Alone with the moon peeping through her silly silly silly window sill
And everything becomes so silly now

…Her possessions
…Her collectibles
…Herself


She tried to clasp her hands
Seemed to utter profound words
A familiar formula that embarked with an “Our Father…”
Scratch.
“What the heck, I’m going to hell anyway.”