poem: “inside the outsider (on my own again)”

my ambitions are small things,
held and taken like pills. I am unstable,
crashing like clockwork;
I tell people it is for
the art, but I spend Monday nights alone:
the cats throwing
their faces at the well and laughinglaughing
at the way the skulls smear.
I have plans
I had plans

There are cities in the stars but I
will never see them
I am busy in hell,
pulling open my palms
painting the walls
making grandeur out of grandeur
out of shit.


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