Tired.

This day sucked.
I about have had enough.
I trudge on through the muck.
But, my stomach ain’t tough enough.
I sing a song off key, and no one hears me.
And I rattle and hum, and blister and peel,
and it matters to no one.
What’s the big deal?

I could do whatever I want.
And I could bust a blueberry.
I could drop a load of garbage,
and it will end up in a library.
I just don’t give a fuck.
The world is temporary.
And I could sing sonnets
with five-dollar bills,
and no one would be ready.
But whatever, it’s garbage,
everything in this vicinity.
I wish I could fight for a victory,
but from seas to shining seas,
There’s apathy.

And nothing there for me.
So, call me ridiculous,
call me anything you want.
You don’t believe in me?
Well I believe in me.
And me and Obi.
We don’t give a fuck.

So, poet, sell your Pulitzer,
for a diamond mine.
Take your tired rhymes
and make something shine.
My dog Obi.
He is mine.
He knows I can do this.
Probably can’t do it
with the misfit I’m with.
So genuflect to the kings and queens
and princes, princesses.
Flow like garbage,
be treated like garbage,
that’s how it is.

So Pivotal huh?
Yeah that was a fucking mess.
SO THAT is what that looks like.
Let me get this off my chest.
SO THAT, you can berate me,
and make my team think I’m lame?
When you want to build a landing page
and I help you with your game?
Doesn’t matter. You already said
this magazine is not for you.
Don’t read it, don’t have time to.
Well, C’est La Vie
to the Brooklyn bridge,
burning down,
like London bridge,

Thinking I want to change
the tone, but fuck this.
I have been trampled on
by people who say
they’re with this.
I send out a song,
it comes back, postmarked.
I send out a submission,
six weeks ago, still in the dark.
Send out some shit to The New Yorker
and the Atlantic. why?
Who the fuck even cares?
Even an infinitesimal fuck?
This world has been cold to me,
and all I have ever tried to give
was love.

SO fuck it, THEN
and FUCK Them.
I don’t give a mother F.
I am done with this life,
at least for tonight.
I’ll wake up tomorrow
REFRESHED.

And Maybe rethink.
Maybe Retype.

 

Jason Wright is the editor and founder of Oddball Magazine. His column appears weekly. His new book is Train of Thought.

 

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