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Jun 2018
People don't change;
I'll still have Bukowski quotes
written on my ribcage
in Sharpie.

Chlorine will go straight into
my nose whenever someone
mentions drowning,
or hating life in general.

Jokes about surf punk and Arizona tea,
everything I've done in the past year
has grown stale. I use the same
three words to describe my feelings.

Things don't change;
my apologies are still faux.
I never felt grief about that death,
or all those car accidents and overdoses.

Radio pop songs derive catharsis,
but I use one pretentious band or two
to combat that. It does nothing,
I am nothing,
or something like that.

Everything won't change;
except for feelings, emotions,
point of views, personal contacts,
and my habit of texting back.

I'll say a bunch of Beatnik quotes
and freak out over small things,
the latest post punk song will be
spray painted in the school's parking lot.

I'll still hate the smell of Chlorine,
but love the thought of memories.
Love the thought of moving on

and the idea of things ending
for a good reason.
a v old poem
Willard
Written by
Willard  19/M/Washington
(19/M/Washington)   
  256
   --- and Khoi-San
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