This one is a poem.

There's something in my chest.

It flutters and strains

It's searching. It's bored.

Everything is fucked and no one is good at anything.

Everything's been done. Everything's the same.

Everyone is boring and pretentious.

There's something in my chest.

It's heavy and hard.

Its diameter tremendous, spreading,

Cancerous and gray.

What can be done? Nothing is possible.

The world is alone and haphazard

And no one gives a shit about your art.

No one. Nothing. No.

There's something in my chest.

A hostile takeover of creeping doubt;

Fuck it, let it go.

It don't belong here, let it go.

Something else can go here, something better.

Make it. Build it.

Become it.

There's something in my chest.

It's light and sweet.

It's warm and willing.

It's ready and able.

Let's go. Let's go now. Yes! Yes! Yes!