I like my practical side,
that looks at the time I have left
in the places I reside,
and tells me not to worry.

I hate the desperate side,
that claws at my heart
and tells me
I'll never be loved
if I'm not now,
even though my mother
was far older than me when she met my father-

but I'm the only single one
in my house,
so I'm sitting alone with a beer
while twin sets of laughter echo down the stairs,
and it hurts
but where else can I go?
To flee is to take refuge in escapism,
which never lasts long.

So I take a swig of my beer
and write a dumb poem,
and wish I had better things to write
since I shared this with friends.