I have a file on my computer of
200 unfinished/unpublished
poems. Not that the locations
of my mostly self-published
works are of great notoriety,
but I’ll take what I can get –
even if self-created.
I mean, I am (quite literally
some-times) a starving
artists. But that’s not true,
and who gives a shit
anyway –
but scanning poem
after poem…
after poem…
after poem,
I realize
(and you can translate
this next bit
anyway you will):
I hate everything.
(although, I am only
referring to the
200 unfinished/unpublished
poems).