my apologies to the bukowski (WIP)

Idk

The words aren’t thrashing inside my head and clawing at my ribcage anymore
There is no feral, frothing beast to set free
All that’s left is crumbs
A dead horse I’ve beaten into submission
The pulpy aftermath of fresh homemade OJ
And yet here I am, still typing away
Reaching one hand down my throat like it’s middle school again
Begging, clawing for a shred of decency in either sense
Scraping the skim off my brain and pressing it between the pages of a book

Author's Note

Still working on it