Lately. It’s because
I’ve been self loathing
And it’s not good to write
Depressed.
Ok. I’m not depressed. I’m lonely
For people I never see. I’m lonely for the years before my mother was sick
When I had a friend in this world
Besides Henry
He never needs anyone
He has it all figured out
He drinks his vodka and passes out
Maybe in the morning we’ll make love
If he feels like it
If not I’ll make crepes and bacon
And he’ll be happy enough
To make it out of another week
Sometimes I write when I’m going through some shit
And it makes me feel better.
I dont know what I am supposed to say
Anymore. None of it makes me feel
Better.
Everyone is breaking. Everyone is trying to hide
Until summer is over
Until it’s all over
Annieepoetry 