nothing is making me happy
maybe fall will see me content for a little while
before it gets too cold
just as its too hot
and the world will be too much
and i will wonder why
nothing is making me happy

crying in the bathroom of a mini golf place feels like a low

i like power lines
theyre comforting
like a mcdonalds or a holiday inn
you know wherever you are the same power
is pulsing over your head. the same that lights up your home somewhere else
so gaudy and bright.

i like the way they ****** up into the sky,
their many-pronged arms reaching and holding,
connecting.

i like the Orange lights that illuminate them at night
and the way they look against early morning sky.
they are a reminder of this connection. wherever i am i am not alone. i am lit up
so gaudy and bright

no seriously im a fake deep drunk *******

thanks for the likes though

this isnt art im just drunk

i am smoking a lucky strike clamped with old tweezers.
i am sitting on the back porch of my friends house
he is asleep. it is 2 pm. i am alone with the rooms of accumulated years.
i feel like an intruder. or maybe a burgler.

there are children next door screaming as i tap out the lucky strike into a dish full of his siblings.
i wonder if he knew them. there were 20 packed in tight.

i am wondering why i instantly personified a cigarette as male. i am worried for the implications of this.

i am hungry and still somewhat thirsty. the cigarette is drying my mouth even more but i don't have the will to rise.

a lawnmower has started up two backyards away.
i am worried for my strange superiority complex regarding suburban life.
i wonder if i am better than the mundane despite this observation.

my friends dad put his arm around me and patted me on the back. it is the most physical contact I've had with a male figure in about a year.
i hope he didn't see the discomfort.

i am writing a poem in this style because the matter of fact is all that comes to me. i am realizing i will probably never write anything worthwhile and spend my young years in the halls of retail: customer service. fast food. i will not travel the world. i will not take Polaroids of incredible things. i will only have my body to sell and the tasks that it can perform. my mind will be placed elsewhere for safekeeping. i am writing a poem in this style because i do not need to write something good. i am not a young genius. i am not a prodigy. i am smoking a lucky strike with tweezers, if that gives you any idea. i just want to write. i don't need to be beautiful. i can be an important ugly, a clunky tongued verse. a bad poem. this does not ruin me. this releases me.

rejected poems and ***** clothes on the floor

this is what i have to give. this is all i am.

melted ice cream. cartons swimming with fudge swirl and a loose hair that's found a home there.

the other person on a couch that seats three.

this is what i have to give. this is all i am.

forgotten nail polish thick with chunks. pasta grown dry in its Tupperware.

surviving to the next year. wanting to make it. when that ambition seems Big.

this what i have to give. this is all i am.