2.1.11

cleaning

while cleaning my room at my mom's house, i found a poem i wrote a few years ago mimicking "The Pool Players. Seven at the Golden Shovel."


The Gang Members. Seven Waiting for their Bail Bonds.

We got hoes. We
ain't broke. We

Fuck shit. We
Take hits. We

Real thugs. We
sell drugs. We

Need bail. We
In jail.



i've also found some terrible poetry, some mediocre poetry, and a lot of notebook pages filled with the kind of existential lamenting only a fifteen year old could come up with.

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