I don’t know how to do this anymore

I don’t know how to do this anymore:

stamp words across the too-bright screen.

I should get up and walk out the door,

head outside, walk to the teashop or a store,

buy myself a drink: something with caffeine.

I don’t know how to do this anymore.

I could buy myself some liquor, maybe score

myself some Ghost Train Haze or Blue Dream.

I should get up and walk out the door.

I should go to a club, tear up the dance floor,

charm my way into some pretty girl’s jeans.

I don’t know how to do this anymore.

I could even bring my keyboard with me, ignore

the coffeehouse chatter, gossip of teens.

I should get up and walk out the door,

but facing the blue screen I still wage war.

Eyes ache from the glare off the machine.

I don’t know how to do this anymore;

I should get up and walk out the door.