tonight, there is no art in my poetry and no poetry in my art.
you can grab a hammer, jam it in my head
i will not understand. i will not improve.
all i want to do is hate myself in a bathtub of bubbles
and fake that i have direction or the will to create.
i do not see god.
i am no good, i should be tossed out.
i could be baked in the oven at 400 degrees
and an idea will rise by tomorrow.