deepundergroundpoetry.com
In[true]sive
I once wondered how many
keys I’d have to stab into my knuckles
to become a part-time Wolverine
I don’t know
what the fuck that means
or the exact amount of skittles
a human can consume before
pissing the rainbow.
Sometimes I think the reason
people from other countries
like British people is because
they find our misery comforting
which is exactly
the part of me that wishes
just for one day I’d of been
a pregnancy statistic
for some suit to bitch about.
My Grandmother
smelled like bleach
and made buttery
mashed potato
the problem being
that now I only like
one kind of potato
amongst fifty
possible ways
a metaphor for life
if ever I heard it.
I fear death
not because of where we go
but the strange thought
of my stuff being touched
by other hands.
It’s hard
being alive
that’s on me,
never about you.
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