This is a throw away.
It’s a fast finish.
It’s a

It’s a leftover.
like turkey dinners.
like little bastards calling
me winna
When I was trying to,
but losing
more and more each day
like summer to winter.

This poem is a scab.
It’s a stitch falling out.
I’ve healed now.

It’s a walk about the room now
with a tough upper lip
and a worn brow.

It’s a fuck with me again
And you’ll be dead now.

It’s a throw away.
It’s one of many.
One of many poems,
typed up words
and scribbled in torn notebooks.

Its too good for the academics
And too rhymey for critics.
Its better then the twitter freaks tweets
And the foolish hit list.

And I wrote this motherfucker in two minutes.


Jason Wright is the founder and Editor of Oddball Magazine. His column appears weekly.