I was sick last night and spent two hours on the following nonsense. It’s exactly what the title suggests. I fucking love shitty 90s music, omg.
I’ll be your flame.
I’ll be orange and pink bangs outside your
screen door, ir-
This is essentially a grownup version of my emo middle school poetry.
Uh. I am not a poet. I did, however, enroll in a poetry class at my local community college to keep myself from stagnating. The prof hated my guts until I turned in a sexually explicit poem about threesomes last week. She REALLY likes writing about sex. I know this because she often reads us her weird sex poems. Now we’re cool.
Here’s the poem that saved me from gaining a 50-year-old archenemy. You should not be reading it if you are related to me. TURN BACK RIGHT NOW, MOM. I’M SERIOUS.