Waking Up

it's hard to walk out the door

to make a left down main

and a right on 31st

just past the old stone cemetery

it’s hard to carry plates that smell of California

electric blue margaritas

smiling with the glittering teeth

and ignore sneers of customers

(I'm sorry, "guests")

it’s hard to keep pretending

all for a paycheck

of less than six hundred

to pay the rent and the phone bill

it’s hard to walk into a shop for

a bag of black brew, a bottle of Jack

wake me up then knock me out

numb the agony into a dull ache

it’s hard to stay in a world I

was supposed to call home

where I should have been happy

instead of hating myself

it’s hard to feel

an unrelenting craving to

taste the concrete beneath

the six story balcony

it’s hard knowing no one gives a damn

they’d replace me tomorrow with

someone whose teeth are whiter or

someone who’s got a better sense of humor

it’s hard that I understand

the hole gets deeper each

and every time I try

to climb out

but the hardest thing

is closing my eyes each night

praying to a deity who

never seems to hear me

wishing they'd never open

but when I inevitably wake

doing it all again.