when the pointlessness
sits on my chest
an angry polar bear
clawing red rivulets
to expose dessicated
organs in the midst of
full on failure
i busy myself with
bleach and red hands
scouring every crevice
until it all gleams
with a cleanliness
fit for a failing meatbag
sloughing flakes of
dried skin over the
spoiled immaculacy
tainting the perfection
simply by being present
better than writing
better than daydreaming
bring scenes to life
that are worth less than
the poor trees slaughtered
to be chipped and ground
and soaked and pressed
into sheets of paper
just to satisfy the
vain glorious mind of
a bipolar nothing
who gives a flying fuck
if some hack finishes
another story in the
crowded room of far more
talented writers screaming
for a chance to be heard
working finger to the bone
to barely float along
with the other bloated bodies
clogging the highways
then pressing the nubs
to the screen all night
knowing it is fruitless
scrubbing the counters
hands cracked and bloody
a pink foam glinting
in the white sink
careful to not make
eye contact with myself
because it always makes
me cry watching as
someone else sobs
cleaning and working out
using art as therapy
has left my muscles aching
my hands raw and itching
and the world itself
a sadder, angrier place
as pointless as a circle
a sphere of insecurities
as meaningless as every
best intention ignored

you could eat off of
this commode
but i don’t
recommend it


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