There is a feeling in my stomach
A bird sings a sad song
It’s Morning and I never fell asleep.
I might be scared of my dreams
The unfulfillment of them is making me mad.
Why do I have these birth pangs?
My mouth spits epiphanies
It borrows time like endless sewer water
Blue warts that taste better with apple pie.
“You left a centipede in the rice bowl.”
It conjures up sadness, the mocking of the blasphemer with more blasphemy
This isn’t Odin’s day yet and you can’t even think about the weekend.
I chain smoke my feelings because no one validates my parking.
I try to drink myself to death because you don’t listen.
You don’t get it, you never will.
My heart has a parasocial relationship with death–what do you want a rising Scorpio to do?
You shouldn’t have expected anything better.
(c) A.R. Minhas 2020