six foot by eight

read my notebooks. my dusty things i still say. ive made no headway in beds ive made. still sleeping in shame on trains in my brain, under steel wheels of worry, pills and thrills are only temporary. it stayed. that cluttered land fill with broken toilets and warm refrigerators i stole. i thought i could stuff them in the hole. thought i could make them new with a fresh coat of paint. but my frame is falling with gravity, and now people are noticing.my cracks need to be stuck with needles to freeze a frozen expressionless face. i am now art with veins. im a picture for sale, six foot by eight. im a giant cheap vase, with plastic flowers, no water, no leaves. flawed bendy stems made in a sweat shop by the taiwanese, with rough edges, that if you touch, you will bleed.