Dead and Gone

In short,
I've gone too long
without writing.


It's driving me crazy.


And Kenyon rejected
my summer camp application
because I'm not rich
and I'm not that good.


So I say fuck them,
because whatever.


Those bastards
can just shut up.


Sorry I don't have 
$1500 
to further my writing.
Sorry I'm not rich.
Sorry I'm not good enough for you.


And yeah, 
I'm taking it personally.
Because it's what I do.


It's bit of a blow
"You've been put on our waitlist."
So if someone better than me
decides to drop
I can go.
But I don't have enough money anyway
so fuck them.


I do what I want
(not really at all).


And I'm so frustrated.
I need to write.
I need to create.


It's killing me,
I can feel the decay in my bones
and I'll be hollow
inside before my time.
My bones
are going to be so brittle
with distress and
artistic sadness,
I shall crack in two,
too soon.


My soul
is strangling me,
and I need something new.
For my work.
For myself.
For everything.