fuck on, fuck off

walden freeman

i write poetry because i am an ice cube pretending to be a diamond or looking for a glacier to feel at home against. a small piece of three-dimensional matter that would much rather be a bolt of lightning or a stray leaf or even the creator of the known universe and beyond. inside me i did not preserve anything great from the past. just a thousand stories and vivid thoughts of dull days staring out a window waiting for someone new to walk into my life. eventually, new people started coming and then started going even more quickly. i manufactured for myself some wings out of cardboard cut-out wings i drew with crayons and attempted to papercut my shoulders until i was left without arms and more aerodynamic than ever. it was the most dynamic i had ever been. girls have told me i am nice and smart. none of it matters. ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha etc. ha ha ha ha ha ha ha . . . it continues . . .