#also midterms

He’s more myself than I am. Whatever our souls are made of, his and mine are the same.

I keep trying to write poems but they come out like lists. Lists of things I should be doing instead of writing have to take on need to shed from the papertrail stack of skins I create every night in piles.

I feel like I’m losing it. By it I mean the freedom of                             everywhere

               words                          page                 goddamn                                    on the 

They must be neat. I must be perfect.

             What if I crack?              What if I error bottom out, lists and lines overtaking my brain until I             glaze into sliced thin perfect packages?