Today

I have dreams and aspirations,
And a terrible urge to sleep.
After years of bad decisions,
I stay quite true to my streak.
Tomorrow means next month,
And that month is forgotten,
Because of excuses and cocktails;
Both strong and addicting.

I have this ringing in my ear,
Wait, that's my family.
Echos melting into Psalms,
The creepy unison prayers;
That I'll pull my head out
Of my ass and do something.
The desire isn't present,
And I'm sick of always faking.

Tomorrow I'm still safe,
Monday is the deadline;
A promise I made to try,
A couple small phone calls.
I can already feel the anxiety,
A stupid crack in my voice.
A rude woman at a desk,
A flustered disconnection.

It's pretty damn hard to find
The perfect sound of quiet.
A mix of soft white noise,
And a mind saying nothing.
Perhaps I'll find it tomorrow,
And progress down a path.
Paved by a bunch of tomorrows,
In which I force myself awake.