Can't focus. Can't sleep. Can't focus.
That song from the past just won't leave me alone.
Plagues. A pox upon me.
Yet, I hit repeat over and over with fervor.
I prolong the agony. I will it to be.
I need this. I fucking need this.
It's not masochism, for this is not pleasurable.
I need the pain to feel alive right now,
to remind, to forget, to hold on, to let go, to let go, to let go,
LET GO.

Tonight, the bottle's just for me,
not for us or for three.
LET GO.

Culture. I have it.
It possesses me as I possess it.
Too much. Too worldly. Too soon.
LET GO.

How I've aged in just a year.
No surprise.
When these things happen, we must grow up.
Adult dealings turn one into an adult,
especially when forced upon one rapidly,
simultaneously, all at once, incessantly, powpowpow.
LET GO.

Looploop the song goes.
My head pounds.
My heart pounds.
My head hurts.
My heart hurts.
LET GO.
LET GO.
LET GO.