The timer is set for an hour.
I'm sweating to the rhythm
of Eminem blasting his ex-wife and mother.
My legs spin faster on the bike.
I don't feel the burn yet.
The memory of HER comes ahead again.
Intensity is at ten, yet I still
feel nothing.
Eminem finds comfort in his daughter.
Level 7. Hydration time. Calm down.
Eminem has his girl tied in the trunk of his car now.
He's driving 90 on the freeway.
SHE'S on my mind again.
A blank face that has caused me heartaches,
stomach aches,
sickness, bitten nails, and tear-stained pillows.
SHE'S now the one screaming in the trunk.
My trunk.
But I don't drive off the bridge.
I go faster even when SHE screams stop.
Still pedaling, I force myself to only feel the
sweat on my temples.
Droplets form along my arms.
I listen to it on repeat, memorizing it.
The hour is over.
Disappointment crashes into me.
I find a punching bag in the corner.
NWA plays this time.
I am ready and angry all over again.
YOU ARE READING
Caffeine and Me
PoetryA collection of poetry ranging from brain farts to exploring why I bother getting up in the morning. Most likely there is some form of caffeine to keep me awake (or alert) enough to type my thoughts out regarding my depression, struggles within my d...
