I’m sitting on the couch, watching the same TV show that I watched yesterday, and thinking about what exactly I’m doing with myself. Binge watching shit? It’s not even good shit. But everyone else is watching it, and sometimes it feels weird to not do what everyone else is doing, so I keep watching. It’s…
I feel antsy. No. I feel ants under my skin. They come out when I’m sober, and they run over my arms where the veins should be, burying themselves inside of me. I can’t sit still, knowing that they’re in there, turning me into a human ant hill. I need to move. No. I need…
What’s a poem, when a picture can speak without a single letter. What’s a writer, then, but only a sort-of artist. A phony. A fake. A lazy fucking hack. I’m ok with that. I’ve been called worse.
I have lotion in the wrinkles of my skin, hoping that I don’t crack from the weather, I mean the pressure of these stressors that control my life, like worrying about if I’m doing enough with myself, or if I’m ever going to finish my book, or… fuck it. There’s not enough Lubriderm in the…