every time i try to write poetry, it sounds the same.
procrastinating) fucking with my fingernails and that’s rust not dirt that’s
from last night, i never minded needles but sometimes i
still have to get drunk to make myself do the shot and then it
bleeds bleeds bleeds
like (not enough of) an exchange
in every mousehole/trashcan/outhouse/pillbottle where i almost glimpse profundity it
turns out to be another hidden mirror and jesus christ,
i’ve seen enough of “my” own face i’ve seen
my favorite scenes to write (genre:fantasy) were ones with daggers (“darksilver”)
and jewels and mead and gossamer and sacrificial lambs and
“holy” water and “green” moss and
CISGENDER men and CISGENDER women i was always
enchanted by the idea of eating one’s fill.
all art is quite useless but it is so exhausting to think that
the artist is as well.