by Tyler Hawkins

I'm not always conscious of what makes me sad
but when it surfaces, it's a hollowness that scrapes under my skin, it's so bad.
Blurred brain and lists written in vain (and god fucking damn it, Anthony Bourdain!),
scrambled, exhausted thoughts and indescribable pain 
when the previews run and that goddamn song is sung--

I was supposed to be stronger than this. 
That's what I thought. Wrought with rage and fuming
when "predictive" text is just assuming what I'm musing over. I'm using 
over-compensatory lessons and plans, 
while the only thing that stands 
in the way of my story is...
me.

PoemSamantha Schutz