Poetry Journal [7]

the problem with effort
Meah Enya Brooks

less than 20 days left and I still haven’t really
started or tried, but why break the habit of a lifetime?
tomorrow is a promise I keep breaking, clearly
it will never be a promise I will keep; it will always rhyme

with sorrow, and my subconscious must take that
to be a bad omen. it would be the most productive
day in human history if it ever did come, but today

is bed and bowls of rice and camomile tea, which
wins every time. I put on makeup just to take it off
again 10 minutes later after seeing the tidy-faced bitch
I could be, but she’s better than me, and she scoffs

from her silver haven, so I have to wipe her away
with small round fragile cotton pads which give
her a slower death than she deserved. time wears matte

black lipstick that can stay on forever without reapplication.
less than 14 days left and I’ve still barely scratched
the surface. popcorn in hand, I watch each day’s cremation
and play to my pity party like a pied piper, unattached

from the fact that there’s less than 5 days left, what
can I do but enjoy the broken ride? it’s too late now to dive
into tomorrow – the water’s too cold. I could pray

like the hypocrite I am, but then again, even I’m better
than to fake faith. or am I? the ceiling is too high
and there’s less than one day left. this size LARGE sweater
is the only good thing I have going for me. I can’t try

because it hurts to think I could try and be wrong
and have nothing to blame it on.
there are no days left.