Eventually, my 21 grams will be abstracted and I will either be a pile of ashes in a blue and white antique jar or maggots will have Feast Days masticating on what they blindly loved or blatantly hated.
my insomnia
is an empty promise
on a shampoo label
reflection
on a narcissistic grin
terry-cotton armpits
flip-flops
and a straw hat
clinched by a knitted shawl.
Fat.
Flat.
peanut shells and paper cups Crumpled paper across the floor
she fumblingly treads
the miles to her bed
and slept a hundred years more...
My life is written for the aneurysms of my every passion.
Sardonic how all of us end up as loam and fertilizer when we try to live our lives
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