If my psychi were a body of its own
My melancholy would be the eyes
running like a broken faucet
a stream of confused
Inconsistancy
My anger would be the heart
beating deep in my chest
harder and harder as if trying to
Escape
My lonliness would be the belly
deep with hunger that seems
Infinite
My ambitions would be the bowels
a canal of waste moving downward
a perpetual flow of filth
I sift through my own feces in hopes of finding something
Tangible
worth keeping
Something worth doing until
The Inevitable punchline
to a bad, *******, joke.