Last week she got so wankered she couldn’t stand,
And this is the first time I could bring myself to speak about it.
I was a child again, a single mother.
I didn’t like to think about it one bit.
I write poetry to make beautiful Rorschachs
Of the scars it leaves.
--
Last week she got so wankered she couldn’t stand.
She couldn’t face me but when she curled up in her car seat,
And allowed herself to cry under the moon,
It was like looking in a mirror.
From this poem is born ugliness.
No amount of rose-tinted beer goggles or incense could excuse it.
--
Last week she got so wankered she couldn’t stand.
Today I reach for the bottle.
Tragic poetic means to an end.
The child I wish I could hold,
Plastered into the yellow wallpaper, I thought:
I am. I am. I am.
May 18, 2024
May 18, 2024 at 4:53 PM UTC
Last week she got so wankered she couldn’t stand,
And this is the first time I could bring myself to speak about it.
I was a child again, a single mother.
I didn’t like to think about it one bit.
I write poetry to make beautiful Rorschachs
Of the scars it leaves.
--
Last week she got so wankered she couldn’t stand.
She couldn’t face me but when she curled up in her car seat,
And allowed herself to cry under the moon,
It was like looking in a mirror.
From this poem is born ugliness.
No amount of rose-tinted beer goggles or incense could excuse it.
--
Last week she got so wankered she couldn’t stand.
Today I reach for the bottle.
Tragic poetic means to an end.
The child I wish I could hold,
Plastered into the yellow wallpaper, I thought:
I am. I am. I am.
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