The Red Notebook
cringing on my desk,
unmatching and
    Petite
Martyr
for my creative expressions
letting me trek all over its insides
with bad poetry, ugly drawings
    alas, I am not an artist
and unimportant “Do nows” that will
never matter
    After all, the universe is so big
Night, for example, is uncapturable
    So why do we think we are,
    So important-humans?
    Silly.
“Our purpose on earth as humans is
to fart around,”—I once read in a
book which nevermind the novel’s importance,
is really nothing.
Its pages are nothing compared to the,
gaseous arm or heart of a star,
We, consider ourselves such a big screaming
deal—our everyday lives centered around ourselves.
Eating food having sex, going pee.
We won’t even be around for very long.
So I’ve decided life is short and a little pointless.
The secret to being happy: be happy!