It’s 2:22am in Portland and This is for the Young Poet that isn’t Me Anymore

Don’t say yes or no.

Say maybe; until you get there or they say yes first.

To know living is to know so fucking hard that you are going to die.

But not tonight.

Tonight you will drink more than most preachers and astronauts.

You will talk more than most 411 operators the year you were born.

Hold something. Not tight, but firm. The same way you’d hold someone who survived choking thanks to your maneuver.

You’ll save a life if you pay attention, so Smile.

Save mine. I’m just an poet who isn’t a young poet anymore. But I can tell you what it means to get old.

No one young can do that yet. You’re all clambering to be me/old at some point. It’s why you’ll quit smoking four times in your life. Get here and go on.

You’re welcome. Your welcome. This is your welcome.

Be young. Keep being young.

Your welcome. You dropped this. I think this is your welcome.

It smells like beer and well whiskey. But it looks familiar.

Take some B12 tonight with a glass of water. Sleep in. You’re welcome. 

It’s 2:22am and I love you much later.

Save a life. Write about it. Call is an Autobiography.

Write through the youth. Live through the old.

By Mighty Mike McGee

I am a poet and a humorist. I have many siblings, niblings and giblets. I enjoy Scrabble and coercing people to think and laugh.

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