John Maurer

Blood, Blood, and Tears

No one has even noticed my brain is outside of my skull
Sitting in my hand dripping out its serotonin and dopamine
The reuptake isn’t great when I’m spilling it out
Like my heart fell off my sleeve and onto the page

I’m still saying what they tell me not to
I have too much free agency for an agent in my early twenties
I say fuck because I’m fucking fucked
If I tell them to fuck off, they fuck on
Even if I don’t give a fuck, they will take a fuck
Like my poetry is a cheap whore, only meant for one night stand

They want to tell me where to put my line breaks
And for that, they will take…hmmm…nine eighths
Plenty more if they can and more if I’m desperate,
and I’m plenty desperate
I would take minimum wage for a page, but who would pay
To see auto-autopsy
To see half of a heart transplant
To see me write poetry until I have a nosebleed

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