poem: apology to readers and followers, Feb. 2020

I am sorry

that I cannot write conventional things:

you would prefer

anecdotes about depression and

things that are easy to read,

where a word is a word is a word.


I am sorry that I prefer nonsense;

that my poetry is so abstract

as to be ineligible

that what I think is art is probably shit.


One day I will make it

or I will be dead.

Either way, I will be a nameless

internet saint,

just another nymphomanic

shooting herself in the head;

I’m twenty years old,

what do you want from me?

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