dude, the wine says 12%, just chug it.

march 7, 2019 — 12:46 am.

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dean (my roommate) and i decided to drink a couple glasses of wine and write poetry.

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off the grass; signaled with fire.

downed a glass,

romanticizing the day i’ll expire.

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sitting between silence + sadness,

i find these words to be self-evident,

that all existences are sentenced to death.

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isn’t it funny that we still worry?

we hold our breath at the sight of fear,

penetrating our poise with power and poison,

frozen, we keep hold to our beers,

wishing it would all just disappear.

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maybe that’s the key.

to unlock a destiny filled with happiness instead of grief,

one must become alienated from the belief that pain isn’t guaranteed.

instead, we must accept the fact that death exists,

that pain exists,

that it’s going to be fucking hard.

quit looking ahead and caring about what’s behind.

embed what you find in the present and rest your mind.

for tomorrow is tomorrow, and yesterday was yesterday, but today is happening, and this wine won’t finish itself.

you’re fine, drink, be happy, you deserve this.