Here it is. In proper punctuation and capitalization and everything.
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I am not a joke to me. You are the joke. The metaphor, the simile, the second metaphor.
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Raise you head up to the sky, to the clouds, the stars, and that one alien called Boeeo.
[Maureen, did you pick up the groceries today or what's your deal man?]
[Nah, I only got the milk my dude.]
Is this how we talk now?
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Festivals are becoming less and less creative. Too much self-obsessed-based fuss.
[Yo, Billy, get that good golden hour insta dude.]
[Yo, Maureen. Shut the f+++ up.]
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HOW DID WE GET HERE.
I DON'T KNOW HOW THEY FOUND ME BUT THEY DID. (like the band or the band's song title)
NO, BUT-
[Guys, I wrote a poem.]
[No one gives a shit Elm.]
[You're foul, Billy.]
[Shut the f+++ up, Maureen.]
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Show us the poem, come on.
We even got you a tall stool and everything.
YOU ARE READING
the cover picture does not belong to me
PoetryI fight daily with originality. It pinches me when I am asleep, and scratches me when I engage with it. I am wrecked from trying to fight for it, against it, with it. This unreleased energy unknown in its scope and range, fizzles. Billy: lol, fuck o...
