"No Slacking"

Woke up and had to write it down. No idea why.

On the day the world ended

I lay on the sofa,

Sending you poetry.

Not my poetry,

His.

The man with the bird inside his chest.

 

All the while you fed

The addictions of corporate s***s "

And hipsters.

Writing dead end novels

And s**t poems,

Just like this.

‘No slacking.’ Wasn't enough,

You said.

Not for the end of the world.

Author's Note

Sorry it's so disjointed and weird, it was a dream poem.