Subconscious paper?
You still don’t understand?
I write raw thoughts here then later inside expand.
Worried about my scrap sheet.
Worried about my work even if the answer is right.
She whispers, goddamn him.
I whisper, goddamn her.
Until I figured out what my window looks like, snowglobe of emotion.
Saved by my paper, saved by journal.
Saved by my mediocre poetic poetry, saved by literary mind sex release.
