Personal Poem

Standard

I haven’t a single thought
worth thinking tonight.
The florescent lights are too bright,
and now it’s 3:24. It’s a Friday,
and I don’t want to say anything.
I smoked some weed earlier hoping
it would coax a poem or six
from my rancid pen, but
it just made me tired,
and I may smoke again,
but what’s the point?
Meanwhile, in real life, Amy went out
and got hit on by three separate
assholes, one of which she tells me
has seen us out together,
so next time he does,
I’ll reward his tenacity
with a broken jaw.
Ke$ha is a robot,
but why couldn’t they program her
to sing better songs?
It’s okay, because in a few days
I’ll be in DC seeing Sleater-Kinney,
who aren’t robots,
they’re humans, and I’m human too
so why can’t I think?

-r. miller

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