How sad must I make myself? When petty annoyance turns to dust, a swirl of caster oil on my tongue, need I stab in infinite direction for something to grasp onto?
When does blood end and choice begin? How much *** must I smoke to stop paying attention? Do you want to be here?
The answer is assuredly No. I know because I know you.
You will numb yourself until the little tiny hairs of your forearm rise and prickle and beckon for sunlight, escape from dark room of blanket piles and ***** clothes.
Do you want to be here? The answer is in the How. Should I keep projecting or wear my insecurities on my sleeve like a good boy, feelings and resolve and dedication to family?
Where did my poem go? Does it want to be here? Should I pull it up from the ether, all hot ember and critique, or might I let it flounder and drown, all not together and scatterbrain, best left on edit table in drunken somberness and existential envy, slow motion.