it’s so _hot_ right underneath my skin
and my breathing, while it doesn’t hurt,
doesn’t make it any better
why are the foolish ever blessed?
i am stuck, mired, in chains of modesty
drowning in a lukewarm sugar pudding
eight little yeses, eight little noes,
stuck looking for a return
and it makes me hate myself (and why?)
the clown, pagliacci,
as he types words he can’t intone
i want to move far away just because it is there.
and this fucking poetry that i try to write is so fucking trite.
goddamnit i have no use.