Young Writers Society

A large mural showcasing a tambourine frowning
hangs over my head as I sleep. 

I could hear it sing to me five hours a day
as I sit cross legged on my floor,
making a puzzle that's supposed to be a dog
but it looks like a fish.

I look at my phone, a reminder that
I'm only depressed because
I have nothing else to do
and that I only go around in circles
with things that have hurt me in the past.

"you should be happy,
you're at the top of your game.
You established a character
and reputation for yourself.
Don't ruin it by thinking you're less
than what you really are".

Fists aren't harmonious
when they're right hooks,
sloppy and drunken to the beat
of the newest synth pop song.

I knock myself down because
I don't want to disappoint;
bad publicity is still publicity,
but it does nothing
to revive your legacy.

I stopped talking to the phone
and the tambourine.
The dog/fish stares me in the eyes,
screaming and screaming for
bittersweet euthanasia.

Five minutes and a couple tears later,
I have a rag over my mouth as I lay
over 500 puzzle pieces.

The tambourine has a slight smile,
its eyes piercing through my skull.