There's a little mailbox off Broad Street that serves as a sort of library. You can take books out and you can put books in.
Yesterday, directly across the street from the library there was a sign on front porch of a house that read "free" and there was a pile of belts and hats and other things.

I want you to write about me but you don't know me and all I know about you is that you're not happy with who you are and that you write and that you're beautiful and disgusting and I am all of these things as well.

My mother has been pulling her hair out; she is losing a custody battle for my little sister, she lost her job and is living off welfare. I'm working two jobs because she asked me not to eat the food in the house so I do enough drugs I don't want to eat and punk rock music is always softly playing from my room, I can't stand it any louder.

My shoes have holes in them.
My gas light has been on for two days.
And I am happy.
The end is never the end,
I won't bother wrapping this poem up because it is not over.