Couch is home; a poem by Andreas Blaustein

I sleep on the couch all the time
But I do have a bed in the other room
The bed is for good days in life
That’s why I never sleep there no more
Passing out on the couch
Dying alone on the couch
Movie dialogues are lullabyes
I’ll die to the credits at the end
At least I ate some pasta
Made by my own fucking hands
Entertainment and movies and couch
It’s killing me slower than time
And people would kill for my life
So why can I not be okay?
Maybe my couch has the answer

Making pasta; a poem by Andreas Blaustein

I haven’t made pasta for a while
I only had the dried ones to eat
I had no energy or will
To make that pasta dough by hand
Today I’m making pasta again
A sign that I’m back on track