Tomorrow

Tomorrow is sitting in my throat 
And no not like graceful butterflies from the tummy, who've come to rest in my vocal chords.
More like a raging, drunken vomit spilling from bad choices.
And I know, how wrong of me
1st World problems, "life's hard for me!"
I know tomorrow doesn't have to be the bile or warted toad but I feel it's form so vividly.
Like a hard hit to the cheeks. 
It's red, raw and so damn real that my tongue calls it to life.
There is life and death in the power of the tongue
And my tongue has ribbon wrapped my throat of tomorrow to suffocation.
Why is it so? 
I don't want to say. The root is too venomous for me to sink my teeth into.
Tomorrow continues to sit in my throat.
A stack of saltines as I'm two glasses short of water.
I'm tired. But tomorrow stays, and shakes hands.
So I'll smile and regurgitate tomorrow into a fashion I hope to be beautiful.