I wonder what would happen if I wrote a poem drunk.

A lot of bad and sappy, stereotypical

Poop word. That’s what.

My head tipping side to side

A girl

A park

A boy

A car

And the sound of sirens.

Someone dying maybe,

I don’t know.

A white man

A black man

A young girl

Taken

Ripped apart by a gutter somewhere.

But it all seems at the back of my mind

Somehow at the front.

(It might have been me,

After all)

Poking,

Jabbing,

Sticking,

Raping my brain.

Right in the frontal cortex.

 

I

Am

A person made of paper.

I can’t

And don’t want to be

Anything else.

Someone who can’t do

Anything.

Only think,

And cry.

 

Yellow paper:

Old

Damp

Wrong

Wrinkled

 

That is the way it

Should be.

 

Life of a paper poet

Drunk

And cold.