It's 3 AM on a Wednesday;
I'm sitting online, talking to a
Guy who never had much to say,
Before we stopped talking a year ago.
I'm Bridget-Jones-ing.
Cherish keeps phoning
When I'm out socializing.
She's sick of the shit I'm vocalizing.
I'm going through a phase;
I remember the glory days.
I remember when poems weren't shitty,
'Cuz they weren't about me.
Jay looked these over;
The guy has an English degree.
After his reading was over
My lack of meter was what he could see.
It's verging on 3:30.
I'm not sure why I'm still awake.
I've got the Nirvana playing,
And more introspection to make.
This poem is shit;
I know it,
You know it.
I miss my command of words.
