it feels like everything ive written has already been written
before im 19 and already a broken record player from far away
enough, similar things just become the same me wish i knew how
to dance. i wish i knew a defiance
uncorrelated with violence. i leave a kindness out to rot in
its plastic togo cup on
my desk, and in silence
it curdles and goes. sour. i keep meaning to toss
it but never seem to get it done. maybe if i make
it poetic enough, it’ll be worth
keeping again that’s another problem
with me– i won’t get anything done until
i have to what happens when the world does not force