stretch and a yawn

I will get out from under
  my rain cloud; put away
         my hopeless situation;
   fill in
     the mud hole I've
        wallowed in so the
   sun couldn't touch my skin;
let wild flowers grow over the
    sleepwalk beaten path
            visited
          and revisited...
   I've long suspected,
         but now I do believe
    these were all chosen destinations,
                    safe houses
            of settling,
     secure self-sabotage,
a low bar for half-hearted achievement.
       The
  same lame methods of self-neglect,
coffee, booze, and cigarettes,
         empty sex
       and cold hearts...
  I'm no more special
than any of the other fat
   and skinny asses—
    we're all sending ourselves
          to our deaths,
      and it's not painless or
                        quick,
                    in the least.
But it's easy.
I've grown tired of easy.
         My body aches with atrophy.
        My soul aches from apathy.