Not Responsible For These Words Anymore


luckily,

I have to head to work soon.

(Words I don’t usually say)

But right now,

work comes as a relief.

A nice break from my thoughts sounds great.


This lady

was supposed to be the main character in my movie.

And one of the main characters in my novel.

Now she talking about the guy she is seeing,

right in front of me.

God she sucks.

One of her many men,

I’m sure.

I sit here in silence.

She doesn’t know that I am listening.

My headphones are in

but there isn’t any music playing.

Fucking miserable man.

Fucking hell.

I was so peaceful earlier,

Now I am chaos.

Now I am in pieces.

God fucking dammit .

What a shit day.

Fuck the coincidental circumstances that slap you in the face.

And now I am recycling lines.

What a shit poet.

Fuck women .

Fuck love.

Fuck all of this.

I can’t think,

and writing about not thinking,

isn’t really writing.

This is a panic poem;

a poem written in the highest state of stress.

The state is hell on earth.

Maybe an exaggeration,

I don’t know.

I am not responsible for these words anymore.

It’s pure emotion right now.

No logic.

No punchlines or zingers.

No philosophy.

There is just

panicking in hell.


-C.H.

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