Warning: naughty language ahead!

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Maybe I should write a poem about weed and dark chocolate peanut butter cups—1 lb for $3.99—and the vice that keeps me from feeling like a productive, evolved, good enough member of society.

Maybe I should write a poem about the nights when the heartbreak of other people makes us question the sanity in our own beating chest.

Maybe I should write a poem about the days that shouting into the void with no yips back—just for the love of it, just for your own will, just for your own sake—isn’t damn good enough.

Maybe I should write a poem about the years we all fear for our lives, when we look on the screens and see who’s running the show.

Maybe I should write a poem about the day we realize we’re just as biased as the asshole down the street and our brain grows three sizes bigger.

Maybe I should write a poem about the days when we feel like we’re the asshole.

Maybe I should write a poem about the day we forgot about love.

Maybe I should write a poem about the day we forgot that we are the rhyme,

the reason,

the whole fucking point.

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Author: Annabelle Blythe
Image: Author’s own
Editor: Nicole Cameron
Copy Editor: Travis May
Social Editor: Danielle Beutell