I don't believe in reality right now.
The walls littered with literature of
one night's sobbing onto the carbon
copy- Machine out of order
due to ******* and coffee spills.

That wasn't supposed to rhyme and
I'm glad it didn't but the meter of this poem
is to irregular breathing and jostling
doors on hinges influenced by the
pressures of windows opening and closing.

You were a goddess up there. In the
chair that you loved and learned to hate
3 months later. It pulls you down deeper
into your own personal- Help me understand your
A.M. radio beauty.

Was it recorded then, or is he
making it now?