It often feels less than something

For twelve years it has grown in me.

My life is unpleasant as usual,

my body is a plastic bin overflowing with 

Work and work.

Messy work.

Work as a habit.

Work as a hobby.

After the final afternoon email  

We find ourselves stuck with a longer evening

Filled with monotonous existence spilling onto 

our beds, the afternoon train ride, the lonely highway

Loneliness has become the coffee of America

With everyone deciding to discard painting their sadness

On a canvas, choosing the sky instead

The foreign concepts none of us are good at

The extremely difficult ways adults have to be alive

The large amount of detachment from this harsh growth.