I dont feel like writing another poem again
why am I even here, clacking
this *******
I should be
digging a pothole to throw garbage in and plant
weeds -- something productive


my stomach hurts,
and people are yelling at me for being honest and considerate of their overall well-being.
you can still talk to me,
maybe?
but I had to lift the curtain, sorry if it's not what you like.

a crumpled tissue sits on the dresser, and there's a transient singing a lil pump song,
I threw a brick at him and he ran into the bush.
days are too long for all of this
sorrow