POEM

for hours i type a story or poem

i constantly delete it

"its not good. doesn't make sense"

i tell myself over and over

the drinks and dishes pile up at my desk

i type and type

i type because i need to get everything off my chest

because truth is

i haven't showered in at least two weeks

i only brush my teeth when I'm leaving the house

my rooms a mess and smells

all of my clothes are dirty

ill wear the same shirt for 4 days straight

my hairs greasy

and I'm just a disgusting person.

"oh its not hard to do all of that"

you don't understand

nobody does

and i will struggle in silence