No one cares who you are for real
because the fake you suits what they need
all too perfectly.
I don’t want your confessions
like a pastor waiting quietly behind
a window made of basket holding nothing
but some poser and the dead.
The risk I take is looking
like a total fucking loser
over sharing about stuff
that sounds made up at best
and obvious at worst.
This art form is a curse
inflicted on the few who try
and wield it.
It is a yellow star you staple
to yourself.
That may have been dramatic,
but those are the kinds of
comparisons this place makes
to get across the things it seeks
to just materialize.
I want to block the water off
with all the trash that I’ve been
swimming through for years.
Canadian geese fighting over
sandwich wrappers in front
of a closed down department store.
Now gone because it wasn’t very good.
Teleporting Typewriter 