Fed Up
by Taylor Monet Welch
They call me
Veiled
Sense of
False
Relief
And they call me
This
For a reason.
I cannot help but fall in love
With everything waiting to
Cloud my reality with
Five dollar
Free lance
Fairy realm
Fresh air
And in all my years with me
(Which amount to two too many)
I have yet to find a filter for my thoughts
Or otherwise
Something to keep things fresh
Or at the very least
Fair
Which never fares well for the fear-based flat-chested fuck-you--
Fine.
It is, I suppose, and I mean this,
Fine. Everything is
Fine.
For the moment I choose to supercede
Any friend or fiend that has yet to find me
At the bottom of my
Finely-tuned
Depression
And allow me to offer my final free hand
To face my other
To meet in the middle
On either side of my head
To feel relief
For a final time
Before the finale.
Fancy this?
No?
Was it
Fruitful?
Forceful?
I fear it may be the answer
To a false stream of fabrication
And the be all
End all
Of five
Four
Free
For you
Fun!