Tantrum

doom

I’m done with counting carbs and calories.
I don’t like summing minutes for my bills.
Fatigued by all the bullet lists that freeze
me more than fire me, I’m lately ill
on numbers, and I need to take a break.
I think my digits are impeding me.
How many doesn’t matter for the sake
of living up to my mortality.

And of the counts I’m currently suppressing,
at least for several hours while I try it,
is what they call the counting of my blessings,
who craft the epigrams and sell the diets.
I’ll gripe and I’ll complain without a care
for justice. I don’t give a shit. So there.

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