collecting pots in my room once more
letting traces of sickly sour tastes remain stagnent
holding the door open to passers by
as they wade through my perception of their ignorance
as in sorrow, all I wish to be is myself
horizontally suffering
feels good to be here.
tomorrow – another day to cleanse
the dutiful sores on the rear
of my inward leaning shoulders
the smouldering haze shan’t get me
this time, I’ll be better by then.