I suddenly felt like
I needed to scream
or explode or
both.
I was hunched over
trying to coax a teeny tiny
***** into place,
listening to the two women
I work with be
scandalized by some girl
doing Onlyfans.
What a *****!? What does her man think?

Ugh YUCK SHUT UP
I wanted to burst.
Instead I hurried up
to finish this menial job.
I am surrounded by
boring people who
talk about boring ****
all day.
It is killing my soul.

I imagine publishing
these little poems
that I write
in my kitchen,
and my car and the work
bathroom.
Or anywhere it hits.
What would people
think of the author?
Would some girl
in 20 years,
find my book in the
back of her high school library
and relate so deeply
that she also begins writing.
Or is all of this just drool
from a depressed person,
no more than an open journal.