spent an hour
signing books
trying to write
legibly so
the lady at the
post office
doesn’t have an
embolism all
while trying to
not come off as
an asshole to the
kind people that
wanted a fool’s
autograph in a
book he scribbled

lavender shippers
with chicken scratch
along the labels
familiar anxiety
over the thought of
someone paying their
hard earned money
for the words i wrote

the struggles of a
bipolar bard when he
is faced with the
reality of the path
chosen for him by the
endless pool of
consonants and vowels
needing to write and
being scared to death
of actually being seen
carefully forming
the letters my thumbs
pummel into existence
as i send my stories
to live on someone
else’s shelf far away
where thank you never
feels quite like enough
for letting me take up
space in their minds
with the madness i so
readily exude on the page