The Sads

The wave breaks and the sads wash over me. But they don’t stop there. The sads keep on going until they hit San Francisco and Los Angeles. Before long even the highest graffiti is covered in sads. Business offices are flooded with sads. The yellow legal pads of lawyers and novelists are drenched. There are sads building up to touch the clouds, whereat they crawl on in and get it on with other sads, and then tiny little sads rain back on down on us until there are enough sads to put out the sun. The world has gone dark, is now 99% water and the water is 600% sads. They’re inside of us, the sads are. Inside all of us, giving us Steve Buscemi eyes. We carve marble with our tears and hope for some decent end but the sad keeps on sadding.

Somewhere out there, out between the farthest stars, there is life, jubilant and free. But I drink in the sads like a dehydrated bulldog and think, “Sure, but not for long.”

Published by dreysleeps

I art and eat and draw and sleep and cry and rhyme. I consume too much pizza and—by all rights—should be dead, but I haven't gotten around to it. Procrastination saved my life.

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