Pigeon

Write a poem.
Sit down, get a notebook out and write a poem.
Then erase every fucking letter because it’s shit and so are you.
The last line was too deprecating, but the audience connects anyway.
Laugh. Throw your head back and laugh. Right at the beginning.
They have to believe you are crazy. You have to convince them of nothing.
There’s a hole in my shoes. There’s a hole in my soul. Which one can a department store fix?
Too few psychiatrist with too many patients with too little patients. I’ve written that line before.
I make a fine poet. Psych. Kidding. I just want to see if you’re still listening.
Make a list then sing all your problems. Out the window. What do birds know? About it.
Probably nothing. But then again, I’m no pigeon.
Cry for no reason in the middle. Break down and shake. Make them believe you are broken. You have to convince them of nothing.
I make a fine depressive. The only kind of person who can ever claim to be a poet.
Pause at the end.
Leave a big. blank. space.
Take a deep breath to make them believe that you are thoughtful.
Convince them you’re something.

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