Art Supplies Poem by Allan Thorne

It’s all there;
The paranoia,
That sickening sense of failure,
That need to justify my existence,
The distrust of love,
The acceptance of futility,
The fine appreciation of
The horror,

(The little girl
Burned by napalm
Who runs
Endlessly
Down the road
Toward the camera.)

A big nose
That can smell
Your stinking lies a mile away,
Your stinking lies.

I’ve got it all
I’ve got all the art supplies
I will ever need
Right here in my head.