it isn’t that
i am


it is
my skeleton
has been carved
from dwarf stars
my heart
is a black hole
my mind gone
so my shoulders
are slumped
in the most
atlas of shrugs
without need
for overblown
nor antiquated

i feel
by the
stillness in being
no pleasure
in the simplicity
in which we are
worn away
become nubs
where once
people stood

maybe i am tired

or maybe
the carrot
on the stick
i have spent
so very long
chasing after
is a petrified turd
painted orange
and in
the failing light of dusk
i am transformed
into seafoam
with a faint hint
of psychobabble
sweet madness

it isn’t as if
anyone could tell

i could be
a smudge
on your glasses
for as much
as i exude

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