Quarterlife Crisis by Benjamin Blake

Slightly intoxicated by 3PM
In my defense I was having a bad month
Constantly broke and when we stumble into
Crumpled bills and battered coins
We swiftly trade them for a little food in the refrigerator
And cigarettes that don’t seem to ever last between our lips
Feeling lonelier than a divorced interstate truck driver
Who spends starless nights in cheap roadside motel rooms
Charging the blue channel to his morning bill
I think I just crossed the county line into not caring anymore
Its dangerous territory
But I’m familiar with the terrain
Nicotine-stained fingers crossed I can ride this one out
I really hope I can
I really do

Mugshot - Blake, Benjamin
Benjamin Blake wines, dines, reads, walks, and writes from the North Island wilds of New Zealand. He’s also the author of A Prayer for Late October, Reciting Shakespeare with the Dead, and Southpaw Nights.


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