Everything is fucked. I submitted my second book of poetry to five different publishers, two of which were holding contests.

I don’t give a shit. It doesn’t matter. Nothing matters.

I don’t give a shit. I feel fucking terrible.

I don’t care. Nothing matters in life. What am I doing.

Why am I saying all of this. Why do they psychically spy on me?

I have no peace.

Why am I so anxious and nervous?

Why can’t medicine help me?

I don’t want to take hydroxizine and be knocked out again.

Fucking pills are useless.

Life is miserably.

Fuck. My life is so fucking miserable.

I hate the trash that puts my worth in the trash.

Trash thinks I’m trash.

Fuck you, trash. You’re trash.

I’m great.

But the trash treats me like trash.

Life is misery.


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