last chance

twelve minutes left
to make something of myself.
this last poem
will redeem me, I just
know it. only nine for
the month, can’t I
go out on a high note?
welp, I never have
before. why start

this year I
cried a lot, laughed
a lot, loved a lot,
did a fair amount
of drugs, and worried
even more. I made
some music that
I’m pretty proud of.

cue people screaming
in the background.
I spent the last ten minutes
writing my last poem
of the old year
only to find that
it has become
the first poem
of the new year.

there’s no lesson
here. whether you’re
celebrating or
denigrating, it all
comes down
to timing.

Published by

R. Brookes McKenzie

what fresh hell is this

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