these days without a dad are strange
in ways I wish I cared more about
things are suddenly easy to let go of
when you are tired and
you finally loosen your grip,
an ode to visceral reactions
things are simple to never need back
if nothing seems real
in the first place
it's never even that deep
just that picturing a future
seems more like
getting hopes up
there is an important distinction
to be separate from  "looking forward to something"
life grows disheartened when these two are confused
used too closely to tell
is this realism? or a ****** distraction
from the fact that
I wouldn't mind dying