Stupid songs.
and me trying.
despite being blocked.
and certain days in which.
witches happen.
and I want to shoot myself.
but I won't.
Butt all is well.
under the enormous sky.
and funny face comedy.
with dicks and farts.
despite the whole unhappiness thing.
Umm...awkward.
targets less for bleeeding.
but the back and forth is more fun.
than screaming at the sun.
so I press my broken shoulder.
to the wall between us.
is this the end of this poem?
is this the sad table in a smiley kitchen?
is this a moment in which I make you a tiger?
without myths, wrongly interpreted, none of this matters.
a harsh breeze, a song.
something is going on.
and I am one of them/him/they/we.