attic.

perhaps this is an old disease
unlike those welcomed by robust lungs.
no, it isn't like slack abandoned
from when you find the dog dead
or your parents fucking, not making love.
it isn't swayed by medicine,
at least not legally.

it's the gravity of ambition
and how far it really takes you,
which isn't anywhere at all.
every day you'll wake up to be greeted
by an LED screen with HD videos
and amateur pictures of cats
and somewhere between
wiki-ing and lurking
you'll think to yourself,
”my god, is this all there is?”

and you'll suddenly recall
several dozen boxes of lightbulbs
stashed in the mind's attic
behind trunks of
embarrassment and perversion
and you'll inspect them all
one by one, air dusting
as each passes through your
conceived hands cold and smooth
and you'll think of all the rooms that could
use a little brightness
so you can find a door's knob with ease
until something starts flashing
and you're flicking the scroll wheel, quited
and content.