Writing down my problems to mull over,
oh, wait, that’s poetry.
My problems were just autocorrected
to pro elms. I wonder
what it means to be “pro elms” and who these people are.
Chinese periods interfere with my writing
just as much as the female variety.
My elbows hurt when I write
like this,
which is especially weird
considering my fingers can spew electronic ink
onto this piece of plastic.
What’s it mean
to not know the meaning of your memories?
I want to go away, or at least
a way. That way may be back, or it may
already be long gone. I don’t know
what I’m doing and why,
I just know that I’m losing
confidence, direction in life, patience
with not being able to think
of the words I want to say.
Fuck it, I can edit later.
As for life?
Bless me.
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