“A Poem in Response to the Act of Watching Paint Dry” by Nick Wort


I have been skipping meals lately

(I know it doesn’t look that way,
bear with me)

just to feel those little rodents
circle inside my stomach —

a little centrifuge, a little
child I could have had.

You remind me, sometimes, of a mirror —
(I’m sorry, I’m too afraid to continue
that thought)

I don’t think hell is coming but
I don’t think this can be solved.


I want to talk about something
else now, this isn’t fun anymore.

It’s always love and money
and bodies with me, isn’t it?

Let me look at a parking lot
and see a bed of roses.

Nick Wort is feral and stupid and lonely. Follow him on Twitter @DollarTreeVegan

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