She hung herself
from the ceiling fan
I think,
The reasons are
unknown to me still,
The why,
but she did it,
We never spoke
that much
so this sadness
is a mystery
to me,
Maybe I saw
something in her
and it
resembled me,
something familiar,
goodbye
Mirror.

What a show!
What a pose!
Who exactly do you think you are?
Hemingway?
Fitzgerald?
No.
Can't be.
Those guys wouldn't drink
this so called coffee
in this hell hole.
Look at the guy making
the drinks, clearly an idiot,
oh but look at him now,
pretending to be reading
some philosopher
I've never heard of.
Yes, pretending,
I can see him
eyeing his sides
to make sure someone
is watching.
And you
typing away on that machine,
that dinosaur,
in your thrift shop clothes
wearing that dumb beret,
so special.
I'm going to leave
the pretentiousness
that surrounds me here,
it's truly numbing and sick.
Forget Starbucks,
I'm going to that bar
across the street.
Whiskey is cheaper
than this cup
of coffee flavored water.

You get a card
some girl
some guy
we've gone to school
for what
7 years
they are nice and
they've shared
the school
it's their birthday
"you there
should come"
picking it up
the card
reading
I don't want it
don't want
to go
it mean talking
with them
people
that's something to
dislike
so much
not hate, not that,
but yes,
dislike
never been good
at it
having
fun with others
I feel
awkward
I feel anxious
what's wrong
with me
in the garbage
it goes
their card

nearly every
day
stalking us,
what business have you,
Cat?

I read a report
Not so long ago
Called:
“Writers most
likely
to suffer
from depression”
Irregular pay
Isolation
Contributed to
The illness
I knew this to be
True
But it’s not the whole
Truth
Writers go mad for
Other reasons
We go mad because
We’re insane enough
To cut pieces of
Our souls
And
Trap them
In paper
And ink.