Everything leans blank.
I forget who I am
and feel as though I’m not as bad empty.
When I’ve lost myself, I’m worthier.
Losing myself consciously
might bring on a souped up life,
but who would I be?
Not that it matters who I would be.

My mind inflates with all of my inadequacies,
a trepidation like a dump truck in reverse,
driver with shag without mirrors.
I’m blind, lined out with the reticence of the mirrors.
I’m the mouse getting run over.
My mind is impregnated with my bad shit,
I feel a depletedness.
I am an empty cage
with Tasmanian Devil
spinning off walls
without a brain,
myself without, not the Devil.