This is Not a Poem

I’m so bored with myself. And now I’m going to pout about it in a public medium. I’m artsy-fartsy but more of the latter as of late. I’m not making anything. I haven’t cried, I haven’t bled, I haven’t danced in 6 months. I’m bored! I feel like I should take up smoking just to feel cool. I want to sell all of my stuff and only keep the non-essentials…a glasses repair kit, an ice bucket, some ribbon and the cats of course. I’m so uninteresting I don’t even wear glasses. My face is just a face. All cheeks and lip. I want a reason to take a train. I want to wear hats but not really. I just want to be a person who can pull off hats, but not wear them just to keep you wanting. I feel like I should do something with brick or yarn or both. I want to be named Francis. I want to only wear dresses from now on. Maybe that will be the project. Only dresses for a year. I want to only eat food that I make in my kitchen but I also want to eat well. I refuse to learn how to cook. Something with brick and ribbon and yarn. I want to be 30. I want to be rich in New York. I want to write a children’s book for adults or an adult book for children. Or Cat Porn: a book of fish. I maybe need to sell my cats. Never. I want to read more. I WANT TO READ MORE. I want to surprise you. 


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