Weak Old.

Sometimes the shadows cast cool spots
over your skin, you think of what luck
you must have to experience brief relief;

the sun beats down again,
too much of anything good,
it'll kill ya--suck the soul right out
and spit you into a cup full of week old saliva,
filth floating in it.

the future is almost enough to gag on,
enough to send you running to the trash can,
globs of mucus pouring from your throat,
and the volcanic heaves push tears
like raw egg white,
and after the savage holocaust in your stomach
has ended, you hold your head in your hands,
sitting on your knees,
and weep.

the future is almost enough,
but it never is all it takes,
to kill you.
I can't promise it will be alright,
but I can promise you that when you've vomited enough,
the pain will endure into the next day,
and your body won't let you forget,
how much it hates to sit in direct sunlight;

it'll kill you, unless you can kill yourself first
and that's a success you're confident about.