My body is stationary yet I am spinning fast,
like those stationary bicycles people drive to go sit in.
I
still
think
of her when I know I shouldn't
I shouldn't
shouldn't worry about things passed
but I guess I'm a *******.

This poem isn't really a poem since there is no identifiable structure or rhythm,

And? I'm just writing to myself. I like to write.
And she was right.
I'm not the person I used to be.
I'm not half what I wish I was.
So sorry.
So angry.
So cold.

Today I was hit with hailstone hard, right in the face.
Stung.
; not like a bee sting, but like lot of little BB bullets barely hitting the surface of the skin enough to hurt.
They still hurt, just not enough to leave a mark.
Not all thing that hurt have to leave a mark.

The light above my head flickers from time to time.
They can make light bulbs that last a hundred years but don't due to the money they can make.