Not every poem’s gonna be good- especially not this one

My mouth speaks miles in silence,

I mumble into my phone, type it out, then roll through my memos and let them grow longer and more robust.

I mix you together and throw you out there like an ape hurling shit.

That’s why I’m anonymous, secret shit flicker.

But sometimes I tell a story, that I then feel embarrassed about.

I blurt it out all in one go.

In a lot of my stories I acted poorly or someone else did.

Stories worth telling need to have something happen, someone needs to get hurt.

Don’t they?

Most of the things I think of lack direction, but if I pluck from real life, that’s already done.

The mess is made and I just get to log it.

The direction is always towards me sitting here now, probably feeling a bit crap.

Sometimes I can’t tell if I feel better or worse when I’m finished.

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