I am sorry
that I cannot write conventional things:
you would prefer
anecdotes about depression and
things that are easy to read,
where a word is a word is a word.
I am sorry that I prefer nonsense;
that my poetry is so abstract
as to be ineligible
that what I think is art is probably shit.
One day I will make it
or I will be dead.
Either way, I will be a nameless
internet saint,
just another nymphomanic
shooting herself in the head;
I’m twenty years old,
what do you want from me?
