The Precipice of Pleasure

Standing on the cliff at land’s end
After three hunched-over days
Bitterly refusing to accept
I am worthy.

The place where one more step
Is the end of me
And foreign chatter and juicy moss
Is what’s left of me.

Often times, after I’ve fallen into the curves of my mattress
Little men in black suits arrive
And barter my pleasure for their right to survive.
Is anything really worth a morsel of my time
If it demands I feel half as free as a seagull?