Get out, before it swallows you

if you don’t get out,

it eats you.

the routine.

that gray bitch

that licks your face every morning

and pisses on your soul before bed.

you start dimming without noticing:

one Monday,

then another,

and suddenly it’s December

and you didn’t write the book,

didn’t screw the blonde,

didn’t go anywhere worth a damn.

they tell you:

be grateful,

be consistent,

be responsible.

but no one says:

be wild,

be free,

be yourself without fearing the noise you’ll make.

then one day,

you smash the clock.

you wake up late,

drink your coffee slow

and say “no” to everything you used to say “yes” to,

even if it bleeds your guts out.

you head to an empty bar,

buy a one-way ticket to nowhere,

or just sit on a park bench

and listen to your heart

like an old friend

you haven’t seen

since you were twelve.

you don’t need money,

or permission,

or applause.

just balls.

enough to say:

this isn’t living.

I wasn’t born to push paper and swallow lies.

get out.

even just for a while.

even if it scares you.

even if the world doesn’t get it.

because if you don’t,

one day you’ll wake up

at seventy,

with one thought echoing in your skull:

you dumb bastard,

why the hell didn’t you do it?