i ate a thumbtack,
but it didn’t go down as smoothly as i hoped,
which is probably why i’m at the hospital right now,
writing a dumb poem about
eating sharp objects ripping my intestines
apart
i don’t go around telling people that i write poetry,
in fact, i use a pseudonym to stay even more anonymous on the internet,
and i lie to myself that i don’t know why i do that,
though really it’s because i can gossip about myself
without seeming too egotistical,
which might, i realize now while typing it out, sound even more egotistical
jane’s addiction plays in the background
from another room, i’m not sure where,
like a low rumble,
there’s graffiti on the concrete walls,
because the kids used to draw on the walls of their parents’ houses
with crayon and were told that they shouldn’t,
but the kids didn’t want to listen,
so they grew up to do it with aerosolized acrylics
while smoking weed and not caring about anything,
because that’s the fashion that keeps on trending,
and i’m not quite sure if i should accept where i’m at or try to get a job down the street at the local taco bell
Fred Aiken Writing 