Does that make sense?

It doesn’t matter

I don’t want to make sense

that’s the point

I want to feel…

…the necessary things

that makes me type

not that fake shit that tries to strangle

my fingers

Sometimes I think I have it

but I lose it

when I try.

I had it!

but I squeezed too hard

and now the butterfly is a

pulp in my palm

thirtyfive years…

I don’t feel old and I have plenty of time

to make sense of this nonsense

Nothing is more awkward than a

writer that can’t write

good.