Papers everywhere
My bag is a black hole
I lost my keys to my home
My car is out of gas
My hair looks bad, I smell too
I haven’t showered in ages
The books I have, I never read
The paint is dry but the painting is not complete
There’s something at my window
A bird perhaps
I shot it with a rock; it bled to death
I’m not sorry for that
I’m sorry for not throwing out the garbage
And for drinking the last bit of milk