The Hole In My Yacht

Writing the same poem again

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I used to have a secret, now it is known to three,

Who want me to call the cops; as if payback is free. 

Fate of nights signed, sealed, delivered, caked in evil purple;

I cross the ocean, pray my path. Herbal

Remedies cross my mind, as I lie awake at night, 

Banished to the bathroom, off goes the light!

And the door shuts. 

But I’ll never lock a door again, never be trapped.

Never drink punch again, and never look back. 

Never that month again, paint over the cracks.

Never punch again, learn how to swing the axe. 

I’ve repeated myself over and over, over and over,

Waiting by the door for the day I lose the chip in my shoulder.

But at the end of my bed, there lies the rot.

The rip in my sweater, the hole in my yacht.