Being Hated.

My friend draws tattoos on women with 

bodies like spiders.

He says it makes him happy.

Every day I tell him he is a good person,

that he has a good heart.

He says he knows this.

One way or another, he says, the world is like

a sheet of glass-you can either look

through it or break it down,

but if you break it down, your knuckles

won’t survive the bust.

I don’t know how to do anything.

I am a writer; it’s what I do.

It doesn’t even put food on my table.

I try to write about nature; about birds

and bees and pirates.  It never comes out

right.  My friend, who is an artist,

always has the upper hand-

he’s the kind who smokes cigarettes

on occasion, and can make friends in

every situation, even though he knows

they are part-time friends, not real friends

that people really need.  

Somehow, I always make

enemies.  I wear glasses; they are like two

sheets of glass.  But it doesn’t make me

feel better.  Nothing does.  I still make

the music, still eat the food, 

even though it’s disgusting and I feel like

throwing it up, feel like smoking weed

and drinking booze and I never do.

Nothing ever works out the way I want it to.

People hate me more than average.