angsty steaming bag of dog shit

July 1, 2013

Nobody knows how selfish I am
I think.
I’m not a good liar, really
but the spectrum gets blurry sometimes
like my emotions.
Like a tidal wave of blame
on you, then me,
then the god damn universe
because I have that hippie in me.

I hate to say I’m lost
it’s just so dramatic
and I’m not dramatic, really.
Just sad sometimes and then
sad about that and then
embarrassed.

I sometimes cry for no reason
in the bathroom.

This poem reads of darkness
like rings under my eyes
like a hot steaming bag of
dog shit.

I am wandering through
a series of wanderers.

I am swimming in a pond
that reminds me of the pond
from my childhood.

I am wondering
what angsty bullshit thought
will pop into my head
next.

This is all a steaming bag of dog shit
like the bags under my eyes
like the way this poem reads.

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