I wrote this today while chewing black polish off my fingernails.

Those dumb girls at the mall

They laugh at me and think they
Own the world
But their souls are bleak and bland
Like my mother's mashed potatoes.
Mushy and pallid, and sticks to the ceiling.
Stick to your ceiling, bitches.
I will be laughing on the floor.
Rolling in
my
Tears.

I need tighter pants.

This will be my sometimes poetry journal. Sometimes I'll just write about no one understand me.

The tool name my parentals gave me is Robert. This name has sufficed for a while, but I'm thinking about changing it to Tristan. Or Trevor. Trevirstan?