i'm leaving the apartment

stop me
from sleeping
in,
wishing indie
bands were
available
like a
pizza
parlor
in the basement.

i'm not done yet.
the 50's chicks are
all over me and i must
still make the town high-
light tonight i wonder if
moments are indeed forever or
if we can learn from out mistakes.

this poem shouldn't be written but i
can't stop typing. (damn me!) i can't stop
letting it out and i wonder if anyone is indeed
listening for real or if they're just pretending...
i'm used to that - the pretending - it's like a
bad stephen king novel that never reaches com-
pletion. stop me. i'm draining emotions like
a side character in a hughes movie of melo-
drama. free pizza? i'm in. what's your
number?