standing in a kitchen washing up pots time to kill so i sit down lots lowest member of the staff no point denying man now i'll try my hand at a yellowy frying pan if i say it's for the dollar it would sound like i'm lying man my life in a kitch and i feel like a dying man dishwasher represent the tears of a crying man still won’t flush the yellow yolk from the frying pan
i remember showing this poem to my friend and he grimaced and said: hardest job in the world, and he made it ambiguous to mean either dish-washing, or poetry-writing, and he made it ironic enough to possibly mean that neither was really that hard, and i was probably not good at either of them anyway.
i spoke to him recently and he said: “i DO DO creative stuff, but i don’t share it. when i die, it will all become available”. it’s this mentality i’m fighting by sharing all these texts, and my weapon is not my poetry, but my mere bravery.
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