Fix Yourself.

Y’all,
I’m sorry that this world
Has not been kind.
But I need you
To cheer the fuck up.

Can you tell me
The last goddamned time
You went outside?
Did you eat today
Or wash your grimy ass?

Y’all,
I’m sorry this rant is ableist as fuck
And I’m sorry that your teenaged wrists
Are all out of blood—
But I need you to take a deep breath
And call a fucking therapist.

The human condition
Is a beautiful thing;
I’m glad you can express it
Through your poetry
But it’s contrite and distorted

I am sorry that
You’ve lived a life
That inspired you to write
Nothing but a grocery list of traumas
And endless sufferings.

Y’all,
I buried a friend last week;
And honestly I tried to help
but it didn’t matter,
He didn’t want it from me.

He looked like each of you
Trying so hard to be deep,
Exploring his trauma, expressing his grief.
But the world don’t change if
You don’t make it—

Seems now like every poem I see
Is another one of you suicide kids
Screaming for help while tying
Bricks to your feet.

Y’all,
I need you to be better;
to realize you only ever
Write this way when
There’s a shift in the weather.

Take your butter knife poems
And go the fuck home
Pick up a journal and
Hone your goddamned prose.

I buried a friend last week.
I’m not trying to offend; just want
To blow off some steam.
And I know you’re not to blame,
but if I read
Another melodramatic poem
You best believe
I’ll blow off my head.

If my grief were a loose tooth
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