11:01pm
I'm a fool, cooking burritos on the stove.
Turning them over every 5 minutes.
On the side, on the back, on the side, on the fold.
Practical magic.
Let's write a poem between each burn.
Wait, is this a poem at all, actually?
What makes a poem poetic poetry?
Maybe it always just depends on what you see.
And then you get your friends to see it too
Reality is a collective exercise in illusion
Reality by majority, my dear.
Privileged for the perceivers in power.
But there're so many people now, you don't have to worry about that.
You will inevitably fit in somewhere.
There's even a group for the ones who don't.
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