This Poem Will Not Resonate With You

I'm tapping along to "Get Back", black keys not nearly

as funky as Paul's guitar.

I've destroyed two ideas. Two ideas that, in a better mind,

I'd not toss so cynically.

My tummy doesn't feel great.

My ideas don't read great.

My headspace is . . . just not great.

My prospects do seem bleak.

This boba tea only offers,

five seconds of post-sip relief.

Maybe it'll get b . . . oh, fuck.

It's like Paul said, isn't it? I lack discipline.

Neither Paul, nor Ringo, nor George will have a word

of comfort, or advice, for me if I keep losing mind.

Not that I'd trust the words of rich men at this point.

I'd sure like to "Get Back" some fucking stability or security.

Instead, I'm going to get back to bed. So I can get-

to clock back into work.

I'd like to get somewhere else than here at some point.

But, truly, I ought to be careful what I wish for. Or else,

I'll end up getting fucked. Again.