the bugs on my face

I wish I were more creative. That somewhere within this cosign secret world I was struck by a magical arrow of musical wonderment. Where I would start spitting out poetry like someone else knew who I was, like someone else gave a crap.

I can ponder the depth of the velocity of
a smile between two
frowns and a spatter of
insults in between my sincere

apology.

I can contemplate life
and a cough of
reality among the depths
of this pretend life.

I can pretend to be
interested, famous, cool,
popular or special.

I can pretend to be alone.

Or I can act the part like a professional celebrity, and be so full

of people, but so full of shit.

Or I can go home to my one bedroom flat,
with

cockroaches crawling up the walls. And hope
someone else finds

me before you do.