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.


or maybe

i could be baked in the oven at 400 degrees

and an idea will rise by tomorrow.