Days drag like inhaling nicotine.
Plaid button-downs. Steel-toed boots.
isn't really a grind, more a slow erosion.
Part of me leaves every morning,
never comes back home.
It's washed away in wasted hours
while thoughts of worthless work
wash over me.
I try to fill the space. Ribeyes,
assorted steamed vegetables.
My stomach tricks my head into
feeling whole again.
But the mashed-potato mortar never
holds the grey bricks together for long.