WISE COTTON IN
THE ASPIRIN BOTTLE
I realize I don't really know much of anything
about myself : how I got this old, I do not know.
I remain uncomfortable with this life, nervous and
shy and squeamish. There are things I've never
gotten over. Childhood stuff, I guess. I do not
know what it means to be this way. If anyone,
say, ever saw my poop, I'd die. I've never
gotten over something about shitting : don't
know what it is. Embarrassment. Too shy again.
A certain weakness to not acknowledge facts.
-
Never got over things. Horrid stuff. The odors
and the chimes of all this life. They pile up and
sicken me. I want to run away. I certainly wish
for nothing of talking these matters out. Let's
be frank - that's why I write. A way to atone.
I can dwell in my land, without bother, alone.
I can dwell in my land, without bother, alone.
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