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.
But the trash treats me like trash.
Life is misery.