i am hating myself 
then analyzing and reanalyzing 
why i hate myself 
then hating how i hate me so much
and how self-consumed it is
then feeling the evening cool breeze 
spacing out
then wondering what 
that last final edit of me
will feel like

if i deleted myself
would the hatred of me stop
or would i become a tree
along the river of this-****-is-forever?

my computer is tombstone
s'only room for one in this, here, algorithm

i'm done

rumi was on ta somethin - eff zombie werds
shelve that ****

yer yum glistenskin skims my mouth probes  
libraries lost easily contained in each feel
makes me undoom this dumb selfieshtick kitsch i do
that kills the mood with two neck wounds incisors apart

feels before syntax

jus thought i'd let you know
*******

this is how the imagination is made:

your tiny origami world gets torn;
then, yer mememe death comes by way of small paper cuts;
from the periphery of this rip, you swim upstream, again,
till you see the fēniks wing glinting like a finger ring careening off the sun.

hmm's and err's now populate yer thinky time
like never before, here in Cleverly Folded Paper World.

t h e r e you are;
mmm, you feel the feels even more,
and the refresh bubbles up from the torn.

but still the big cut creeps back ---
x out old you; new document, anew anew, stares, blinking, waiting.

edits forever bloom steely wutabtme? iridium spiels around edges
of tattooed white petals, elegant writs fell; wilting; seeding...

this world, too, must be cut to fit:
if you wish to have a home for the iNGkē worm
that sillily dreams of one day winning its wings.

Looks like I'll be on the road again. Nowhere to go. Poor af and no motivation. Shadow without a body. kicked pebble. road marginalia