every writer’s angst

[Bodey]

i'm a raving recluse that snaps its neck with a noose
that i formed from my web, what a shitty excuse
forgotten and then some, a coffin with phlegm, yum
skin rotten to bread crumbs, and chalk-colored spent lungs
yes, the wit's gone, it's been no secret to me
one big yawn during fall watchin leaves on a tree
the pen is good to my soul but i trip over my feet
dumb as a bowl filled with poison that i can’t wait to eat
i’m a pissy pot of bullshit that thrives on being hopeless
this broken faucet's flowin, i guess i'll thank the roaches
it’s a grisly thought to focus, that my written art is frozen
what a wishy-washed up poet and everybody knows it
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