about the author

i should be asleep. it is 2 AM and I have an 8 AM class.
who is the poet writing this defecated poem?
a college student who doesn’t know if he really wants to be a college student. one day, he hopes to be in a book or a magazine where his name is featured. in reality, he wants nothing to do with the fame. all he wants is sheets of silk and possibly ease of the mind. but here is he, formulating his life in a poem to seem more like mystery. if you took a look at his history, well there would be tons of pornography riddled searches along with “what happens after we die?”, “is god real?”, and my favorite, “i want to die but i don’t wanna kill myself”. sometimes he searches but an answer never comes, but he for some reason prefers it that way. he is too much of a hopeful romantic, believing in people too often when his own life is a lie. a true Casanova and a true facade. sometimes he wonders if people can see right through him, but he isn’t composed of much matter anyway. he doesn’t matter anyway. at least that’s what he’s been led to believe. when he pours out his soul for the one he loves but they fall like seasonal leaves. gone, swept away into the compost bin. at least they’ll be reused, he belongs in the trash to tell the truth. he’s not interested in falling in love, he’s interested in a certain type of person. he is indifferent towards all fields of life, even the shades of yellow. except this girl. and how frequent do women come up in the this poet’s poems? ALL THE TIME. SICKENING ISN’T IT? Well, I’m sick and she’s the infection. By god, she is solar and she’s blinded my perception. I’ve never been a fan of writing essys, but today I decided to let anyone who dares read my poetry know a little more of me. I am depressed. I am happy. I am me. I am not. I am a musician. I am a terrible singer. I sing. I am a terrible artist. I am a poet. I am Joshua. I am in love with myself and my hatred for myself brews and boils on and off. This girl believes the world revolves around her. I am the universe.


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