a poet? the tongue is garbage, bent like a wire hanger.
I think to myself "why can't I be original?" I then realize that it is
very likely that I am just a copy, like a worksheet for a third-grade class
to arduously scribble away on. I think I am a math problem.
I've never been elegant, why would I start now? there are clocks
that tick tick tick and chip away at my chains. iron filings begin to pile at
my feet, but the damned things won't break. they won't let me go. I can
scribble(like the kids), and I can write write write but what is this really? I'm just channeling
some other motherfucker who wrote before me. see you in a few days.
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