Fed Up

by Taylor Monet Welch

They call me 

Veiled 

Sense of

False 

Relief

And they call me 

This 

For a reason.

I cannot help but fall in love

With everything waiting to 

Cloud my reality with 

Five dollar 

Free lance

Fairy realm

Fresh air

And in all my years with me

(Which amount to two too many)

I have yet to find a filter for my thoughts

Or otherwise

Something to keep things fresh

Or at the very least

Fair 

Which never fares well for the fear-based flat-chested fuck-you--

Fine.

It is, I suppose, and I mean this, 

Fine. Everything is

Fine. 

For the moment I choose to supercede

Any friend or fiend that has yet to find me

At the bottom of my 

Finely-tuned

Depression 

And allow me to offer my final free hand

To face my other

To meet in the middle

On either side of my head

To feel relief

For a final time

Before the finale.

Fancy this?

No?

Was it

Fruitful?

Forceful?

I fear it may be the answer

To a false stream of fabrication

And the be all

End all

Of five

Four

Free

For you

Fun!