Yeah, But What?

Nine years pro bono

Writing for free

Filling up space

Letters in the mail

Letters back in the mail

Up all night

Write all night

Unrecognizable to yourself

Hating the mailman

Hating the man

Cars go by

Cars go by and you

Write, write, write

That’s a fucking howl...

Not publishing something

And profiting off it being called obscenity

Cunt cunt cunt cunt cunt nigger bitch

(doesn’t mean I won’t try for it anyway)

Rough hands and pictures in albums

Of a face torn with sadness from

Working on roofs for moments of silence

To accumulate the ultimate tool of writing

Time

Oh, faithless is no way to go through life

So I won’t

But don’t be bitter, mother says

Everything happens for a reason