TWO HUNDRED AND FIFTY

250 posts and I can’t bear to

be another host to this injustice

that I’m spitting thrilled at every

intermission

silly to salivating

grotesque to amalgamations of

every feeling that I’ve spun into

this wretched hive of love

a misbegotten thing that I’ve

toiled at for so long

a few years wasted on

this breathing incarnation of me

and its a living thing that I’ve

given life to with my words

two hundred and fifty entries

in this diary that’s never heard

never ever read or read into

barely understood

so understand me when I say

this isn’t the last by far

two hundred and fifty written in spite

of never getting anywhere

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