Couch is home; a poem by Andreas Blaustein

I sleep on the couch all the time
But I do have a bed in the other room
The bed is for good days in life
That’s why I never sleep there no more
Passing out on the couch
Dying alone on the couch
Movie dialogues are lullabyes
I’ll die to the credits at the end
At least I ate some pasta
Made by my own fucking hands
Entertainment and movies and couch
It’s killing me slower than time
And people would kill for my life
So why can I not be okay?
Maybe my couch has the answer

Walls are friends; a poem by Andreas Blaustein

I feel invisible
Sometimes it’s nice
Most times it’s dull
Boring and dumb
Scrolling on my phone
A meme, a video
Nothing is new
Even if it’s new
What is the point
Doing by yourself
I’m in distress
The walls must know it
But they only stare

Making pasta; a poem by Andreas Blaustein

I haven’t made pasta for a while
I only had the dried ones to eat
I had no energy or will
To make that pasta dough by hand
Today I’m making pasta again
A sign that I’m back on track

Junk food and spears; a poem by Andreas Blaustein

I’m eating junk food in the dark
I’m crying because I don’t feel
A multiplayer game is on
But I don’t wanna play it anymore
I need to fuck myself up
Because I don’t plan on surviving
An accident or a gun to the head
Whichever is fine by me
The spear is aged and dull
And I don’t see the point
I used to, but not right now