This Won’t End Well.

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

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