Here's Some Proof That I Write Terrible Poetry

I am so tired of

I           my sucker-sided shower caddy

            falling, with a series of crashes and

a          thuds, like unseen slapstick,

m         and of

            wakeful hours, after

s          dreams of a zombie apocalypse,

o          a thinly disguised xerox of The Last of

            Us, like, get a life, brain, at

t           least make up your own nightmares

i           and of

r           reaching for Visine bottles, only to

e          knock them over, as if clumsily, but it’s

d          just bad design,

            and of

o          my nightgown, bunching up, exposing my

f           self lewdly to my own sheet set

            and of

            war

            and

            doing the dishes

            and

            hearts that house spines (pitiless artichokes)

            and

            gravity’s effect on

            me and my shower caddy and

            the whole damn

            thing. 

--

Slightly after Justin Marks, whose book You're Going to Miss Me When You're Bored I read this week. All due respect to him and his credits (and I even enjoyed the poems, for the most part), but it made me feel like poetry could be any old thing about your life. So here's that. I had something I needed to express.