A poem from my “Nothing but Nonsense” period (September, 1997 – March, 1998).
Tell me what day this is. I've been sleeping for too long. The wrinkles in my pants won't come out. The bad taste in my mouth reminds me of her. And, this hair surely is my doom. Five hundred years of sleep, I could have sword I was dead. But, someone held on to hope. Too bad I don't care enought to learn their name. All I can think about is brushing my teeth.
