Indecipherable,
Somehow Sensitive,
Pickup Jargon.

Getting laid is remarkably
like writing poems.

As of late
I’m not doing
too well with either
and
I’m scared I’ll never write
anything
again.

I’m trapped in an elevator
at 10 000 feet and counting
down,
looking through
this stupid glass floor
with
everyone’s heads
half-way to the ceiling,
still staring blankly forward.

With stress like this
it’s no wonder I keep flubbing
all my best lines
and that

the awkward pauses
are as of yet unresolved
with the imagery I’m trying to create here.

So I guess
what I’m trying to get at
is
would you still fuck me?