Nothing I do is good enough for you
I hate myself
Wipe the table clean with tears and tissue
All I am is deficit to you
My worthlessness
Another mouth to feed
We are each over-expectant
Hoping for the incredible
Imagining more than what we’re served
Denying reality
Each destroyers
Of our own dreams
The moral compass
Keeps teetering towards disaster
Not-so-distant past lingers
I want to go back to my own people
But my own people don’t exist anymore
Except in cartoon version
Everything is collapsing fast
Nothing is gradual
When did the present
Overstay its welcome?
I am desolate dictator
Of empty room
What do you do with your scabs?
Not the little flakey ones
I mean the big chunky crusty ones?
I throw them in pan and sauté them
With olive oil, onion salt, a little pablano pepper
Serve them to myself and ghost dog