kerouac (un)cool

i take a picture
of the last moment
of happiness
so i can cry
as i forget how
to smile again

there is a
in being a
of the sad
little poet

the ceiling
hides the void
the words
give form
to the tangible
lack of substance
sucking the air
from the room

but fuck
that’s what
you’re here for
isn’t it
to rejoice in
how fucking
lovely it is
when i casually
bleed out
on the page

staring at a picture, unable to recall, how to make my lips curl anywhichway

but downdowndown

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