bookshop (a poem about those fkn self-help books)

the paper, thin but strong

the slightest tint from basic white to a character

the binding, so minuscule and fine but 

tougher than nails


it is an art

an empty canvas


why must you paint it with 

fixes, tips, and the next new thing

screaming at souls to improve

digging out their shame and self-consciousness

in order to sell 


i came here to think 

to enter new worlds

not be choked by empty words

why you are sad and how to fix it

why you are fat and how to lose it



there are so many canvases filled with 

correct ways to do things

the right answers 


that people have stopped

discovering that for themselves






i'm sad, but pathetic so i'm writing about it ►


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