if i was an optimist

i can see in her eyes
she will kill me one
of these days

if i was an optimist

i could see a future
a house, children
playing with the
dog in the yard

i’m not an optimist

i see a drained
checking account,
credit cards used
without my knowledge
and the threat of more
violence if the other
demands aren’t met
soon

when an old woman

my dirty brain laughs
when an old woman
checks me out

even if it’s just for
a second

i can’t help but
wonder if i would

it’s been over
a decade

of course, i would

single in my forties

the darkness inside of me
kills everything it comes
into contact with

at least that is how i’m
going to think of being
single in my forties

i could lament having
no fucking luck with
love or i could drink
away the pain

i’m sure there are better options

but i never set foot in
anything resembling
a better life

i’m comfortable in filth
despair and the usual
sad moments of agony
and pain

sunshine gives you cancer
and there is no gold at the
end of a fucking rainbow

beethoven plays in the distance

all the angels are out of mercy

they look out of place here
anyway

unlock the case and load

every ending is a new beginning

or whatever bumper sticker
works for your ending here

but as the light fades

she was the kind of woman
that had already lived a
couple lives before you
walked into hers

she never wanted to
fall in love and you
never wanted to like
the pain

but as the light fades
like a soft angel peeling
her lips off an old soul

she’ll teach you the
horrors of gin

of cocaine after three
in the morning on an
empty stomach

of what happens to
the hero in a land of
assholes and disease

depravity never lets
the sun shine

be careful the first time
you see your shadow

one false move
and she’ll haunt your
dreams until you die

no desire to even think

i remember
thinking i
was going
to die in
my twenties
when i was
a teenager

i never even
thought my
thirties were
even a
possibility

there was no
planning, no
desire to even
think it was
going to
happen

and now i’m
acing life in
my forties and
figuring out
how to die
while poor

indoors is the
best i can come
up with

J.J. Campbell (1976 – ?) is currently trapped in suburbia, plotting his revenge. 
He’s been widely published over the years, most recently at Record Magazine, The Dope Fiend Daily, Horror Sleaze Trash, Synchronized Chaos, and Chiron Review.
His most recent chapbook, the taste of blood on christmas morning, was published by Analog Submission Press.
You can find him most days on his mildly entertaining blog, evil delights & Goodreads