and when it was over
i could not decide if i wanted
to laugh
cry
or just plain throw up.
i used one of my two preferred sedatives
music
and flowed on.

everything is clogged
and your insides burst out
through your tongue
i lose all sense
of sense
and can only stand

and realize

i drink too much
and write too little.
i think too much
and act too little.
i care too much
and care too little.
so
i scoff at aristotle's empty promise

and besides,

maybe the point is not happiness
but passion.