cryptid in july poetry day 15, the squank

 

a poem about the squank

i cry
from sadness
frustration
confusion

i cry
like a baby
or someone whose family died in a tornado

i recommend crying

cry and sob sober
while writing a novel

i enjoy saying
”you like talking to yourself, don’t you”
alone in the woods
stoned

i realized emotion pain
was just yearning

someone continually cried me into existence
it’s crying
i’m its tears
and when it stops i’ll disappear

if you try to find meaning from this poem
just know
i can create a giant sentence that will kill you