There’s a tasteful temptation to the pessimum.  

To the husk of blubber, 

Curled to the silk, carried to the platter.  

That version of me is real; 

Soaking in a life 

Unburdened by a wise man’s niche.  

 

The weight on my chest grows thicker 

where the textbook tags dangle.  

A dank and peach-lit den, 

And an infinite supply of my own desires.  

Dreamy, isn’t it?  

Burdenless.  

Fat, happy, a hog to the trough.  

 

The disgrace becomes more appealing 

As the dates flash the eye. 

Placed on a podium for the few, 

Yet looking upon carved towers to the right.  

Wasn’t it my place to gulp and gurgle, 

Swallowing my mouthfuls of cirrus, 

While the rest, made dolls by envy? 

 

Perhaps my lungs had swollen, 

As the atmosphere infected each vein, 

Pulling me towards my concrete awakening.  

 

Or maybe they’re each an Icarus,  

flashing their pearls,  

Casting a shadow over sizzling pride, 

Now so easily snuffed.  

 

I’m not trying hard enough. 

But I don’t have the will to try any harder. 

I’m not a perfect creature.  

But then, none of us are.  

 

With the blackened skies of dinnertime,  

The alternative begins his call.  

Lay pen to tomb… 

Succumb to the generational standard… 

Pure, blissful laziness.  

 

What a wonderful thought.