by Viktor Tejada

Things have gone to shit.
My bed is now my chair.
My chair is now my lint roller,
collecting dust and stray hair.

I tried writing it off –
I haven’t written at all.
Everyone’s on their way to their goal
while I’m down here, delving into limbo.

But I guess it’s cool,
and I guess it’s fine.
It’s not your future anyway,
because it’s all just mine.

You’re all ahead two years
while I’m behind my fears.
This was never worth my tears,
but it’s the opposite of what Satan hears.

Don’t tell me to try my best,
believe I’m giving my all.
Believe I aced that test,
believe I’m just destined to fall.

I guess it’s cool for now,
and I guess it’s fine as well.
It’s not your future anyway,
that is plummeting straight to hell.

I don’t even know now,
and I never did know then.
If I vanish now,
I hope I wasn’t a bad friend.