I don't sleep
I hold on to my bed
The backups must go
My fingers dig into my sheets
I want sleep.forget.melt into night.
But
What if something goes wrong?
I may need them
It is only information
Limbo
Drealand
That's all
And if I try hard enough
Maybe I can forget the dark place where
They
We
Are...

I
Wait
Wait...
But I hear nothing
So...
I wait
For answer
And
I
Wait
Wait....

I am in such a **** mood,
the mountains have no meaning.
Big ******* rocks.

*******, dad.
*******, Fox News.
*******, Indiana.

None of you *******
know what irony is.
Google that ****.
Jesus Christ.

There are yellow streams--
that's poetic ****.
There are ruby stained sheets--
that's blood, obviously,
and, I dunno,
maybe somebody died on a bed?

Everyone can **** my ****.

To be or not to be,
that is the
shut the **** up.

Rapists are disgusting people.
They aren't people.

******* idiots.
Romanticizing everything
you wish you had
because
suicide, mental illness,
and eating disorders
make you cool,
riiiigghhhttt?
*******.
If you do this,
you aren't interesting.
You're just you.
Get used to it.
There are people
that go through
these issues
and they don't think
it's ******* rad,
*******.

I hate 75% of the south.
The south will rise again?
Get the **** out of here.

Stalin was a ****.

Most writers are *****.
Most of them ****.
I don't care.

For the love of "God",
if I read one more poem
about what poetry is
or how to define a poet,
I'll slam my head against
a ******* knife.

Some people are so dumb.
Most ******* people.
******* pseudo-knowledge.
Armchair philosophers.
If you guys wanted
to **** yourself,
you could jump
from your ego
to your IQ.

Something, something, imagery.
Metaphor.

I should write a villanelle right now,
without delay—no more ado will do—
I would, except I can’t remember how.

Indeed, my meter mastery would wow,
And always rhyming perfectly would woo—
I should write a villanelle right now.

I bet that I could even court a cow
With deft command of each and every moo—
I would, except I can’t remember how.

Soon, I’ll lose my grasp on “thee” and “thou,”
And I’ll be barely left with “me” and “you”—
I should write a villanelle right now.

But first, maybe I’ll try to find some chow.
I could make a hearty soup or stew—
I would, except I can’t remember how.

Before I storm the stage to take a bow,
Uncertain if I’ll get a cheer or boo,
I should write a villanelle right now—
I would, except I can’t remember how