Dear New Jersey

so there will be no poetry right now. This is supposed to upset you.
I'm not necessarily unhappy,
I'm just more or so neglected.
You taught me a trick,
and I'm performing it
in a park by myself.
You let me off the leash
and no one wants to walk me,
and I get it,
I can walk myself,
but how fucking hard is it
to take a walk with me.
And I'm smoking a cigarette
in the backyard,
and I can hear you breathing,
And where've you been the past 10 years,
Ay lady?
Dinners always on the stove,
Cause I remember Mets Announcers
relating more to my fucking day
than any sort of family;
eating alone,
night after night,
and its all right.
And college?
yeah what a dream that would've been
a summer broke my back
and a chiropractor fixed me up
and I would've gone back,
and i had 6 classes stacked,
but, I guess I'm just not the priority
an overdose, a failed suicide,
I fell into a pit of shit
and now I work 50 hours a week
write stories and songs,
but they're all just fidgets and habits
and wasting my time--
i fixed my behavior,
but I'm taking my drugs ay?
Topamax to go to sleep,
Lexapro because I have to pay
someone to pretend to be my mother
for an hour a week.
My family means nothing,
and that doesn't hurt as much
as the fact that i turn to my friends,
and all I see is a pile of records that I bought
at the store for 99 cents,
and the dust on sleeves,
mean more to me than your
shitty fucking hobbies,
your small talking--
great deal of nothing little
bullshit bakers dozen parties,
and your man up drunken
threats. thanks a lot
for not one good fucking memory,
anyone, anything,
ever.