i wrote a poem last night while i lay awake in bed feeling sorry for myself.

woe thy name is hardwick
your mom is an unwashed dog
your dad a cold indifferent son
you are an unfortunate child.

i read it to mom and she said, ease up on the melancholy llama drama, you're riding him too hard.
i have angst, mom says it's just a fever.
she has taken all my clothes