a one man band drinking draino alone

the solitude
feels more
solid somehow
the words
are being
persnickety
plucking
blooms off of
cacti instead
of tending
a pretty
garden in an
abandoned lot

my soul feels
heavily salted
and my best
attempts at
planting something
is just another
upside down
bulb growing
towards, yet
away from,
differing sets
of hells

seeking solace
in solid
solitudes
singing soft
self serenades
a sullen ache
and bad attitude
complimenting
a sore head
and salted soul
bleeding from
a million little
pinpricks on my
piss poor poetics

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