I found my back resting
on a bus seat backrest
the words reeking with
the cigarette on my hand.
Held on to the steel railing
as I asked the driver where next?
Said somewhere warm or
provoking or even dark,
nowhere near my dining table
or my couch
or my bed.
Said I should go
so I’d have something on my piece of paper
maybe glowing maybe tragic
but not empty.
I came from another hospital stay, an 8-day confinement for the second operation, the part 2 of saving my arse from damnation. And I have thoughts put into bullets.
(Now on a quite unrelated note, I feel like those who write through bullets and don’t complete the list are completely obnoxious people because they definitely have no fucking excuse and should have another gender so the society will be warned about them.)
The metallic taste on my tongue hasn’t left,
my head spins from the smell.
My arms are numb from the needles
superoxide omeprason astadol tramadol
maybe I can use them to praise God or
write poems or take in another needle, but God bless orals.
My esophagus is burning now
my patience withered out.
Maybe this time, Leonardo. Maybe this time.
Here’s a little prayer circle for you.
I don’t wanna die because the world is nice
and cute, a little cruel, A RUTHLESS BITCH
but meh, never mind.
Besides that, I want to write
write my sadness and troubles,
write my little joys down,
write my hospital stay after the stitches
and how I made my headaches a crown
like those crazy little bitches.
Then I’d get out of the hospital and
skip classes, skip school,
skip the old life for a cigarette
and write more.
Who needs a degree when you can write more?
Who needs the old life when you’re bored to the core?
But when you’re dead you can’t write,
and I don’t wanna die
I haven’t yet gotten my Nobel Prize.