Fuck writing soulless shit.

Fuck building a career on producing words that will be glanced at and discarded.

FUCK BEING PRACTICAL.

I am sick

of this script

Cheerful? No, god, NO. Where did my vitriol go?

Under a layer of papier-mâché, sour and the colour of yesterday’s petty concerns.

But everyone does a little arts-n-crafts now and then, you say.

They do—they do. But just watch the way they move.

Careful, so that the balloon doesn’t pop before they’ve set. Halting, because their pickled, rubber-encased body is for the future, and they mustn’t let it get wrinkled or scratched before it is fucking time.

But—time? What time? I’ve put countless pennies into that dusty slot and they just sit in the bottom of the jar.

I don’t care to be what you are.

.

October 2018. Poem.