Poetry

March is Over

March is over. I swear it was the 17th yesterday, but now tomorrow is April. Read More

March is over.
I swear it was the 17th
yesterday,
but now tomorrow is
April.

2020 was three months ago,
and somehow we’re one-fourth
through 2022.
I’m gonna be saying happy New Year,
before I even have a chance to catch
my breath. Before I catch up
it will happen.

March is over.
the landlord is raising my rent
by $170.
I’m tired all the time,
I’m making more money, and got a raise
at the beginning of the year, but
someone must’ve told my landlord,
and the world, because the cost of living
also got a raise.

March is over, but
the war isn’t,
the epidemic isn’t,
the pandemic isn’t. (even though some think it is)

Yeah, March is over,
which means winter is over,
and spring has sprung,
so it’s time to write a poem
about the transition of time and
spring’s ephemeral beauty, and
tell winter to fuck off.

March is over, but
all the stresses of life continue, and
my demons beckon me back to my chains.

Oh well,
April is beginning.

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