The problem with today’s writers

A box got washed up
on the shore
placed in a bowl
protected by water.
No hole.
Water could not sink in.
On the inside of the bowl
a cardboard box,
filled with clothes
and letters.
Hearts as i-dots.
Got slime on the fingers,
parody worthy material
but the signs stuck out
liked the theme.
weaseling through the finding
what was found
what connected two people
– used time
and two person business.
Boring mostly.
A monument of love
open at sea,
Not even sharks
would touch that
bowl of plastic.
I took there stuff and made a
fire with it.
It got cold at nights
alone on this island.
I had to get out of here.
The fish grates
I broke;
I made
improvised fish hooks out of them.
Out of the thickest bones
I had on hand.
The smoke of the burning fire
smelled like
letter paper and pathetic desperationsweat
I can’t really be stranded here
for how many months.
I can’t tell
and hungry for flies
and Methamphetamine
I got in a hood
on an island
and fish for my own need of food.
I don’t like fish.
I was not born at a city
located at the sea
I never lived somewhere
but I knew how to fish.
I just knew.
In trees
I carved symbols
couldn’t say I didn’t enjoy it.
Was fun
at first.
living on an island
being alone on a dot;
living dot
of green
in an ocean of blue.
But here is the thing.
Did you ever live
on an island
for more than
two months?
It is not exactly
a beach resort.
Bloody hell,
it rains a lot.
And I don’t even
who I am writing this
I seem to have turned
Putting a message in
a bottle
and letting it
swim in the open sea.
Even though
now I know
I enjoy actually;
having enough trees
to eventually hang
myself here.
Enough leaves
to make
a solid rope.
And once in a while
tourist boats pass
and at night
the island turns bitter cold.


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