A quick suicide with a two-sided razor, If I added my blood—it’s just for flavor. I watched over her like a worried mother, Surveyed her surrender to a Soma Coma And I would never judge her because I understand her disease and her need To escape from this quality of life & this cost of ‘living’ And the erroneous tee-vees that act like it’s reality they’re giving. Her head, It starts to nod. Her words, Get blurred and she starts to sob, Over how she needs to get a job. & I think that it’s odd that her head starts to bob And she looks less like hippie and more like odd. I’m indentured. Should not have ventured this far from home. Sadly comprehending I’m better off alone.
Where conspiracy theories meet feminist theories. (And sometimes there's poems).