Every shelved poem (if there are any)
(and there aren't a lot of them, to be honest)
(when they exist, they exist like a barbaric
sizzling television static or what-do-you-call-it)
(but usually, there aren't any, and the rear
of my neck feels made of curd when I wake up)
(but yeah, there aren't many, which drives
me to make some monumental mess ups)
(because there aren't any I indulge myself
on my college educated words, inherited
from hours of labor, and I shuffle them, save
few hours of sleep, post like I know something
about the gravitons of regularity) (but, its cloying,
really, very juvenile, sappy-like) is annoying.