I haven’t written in weeks. You cannot understand how noisy it is in here.
Sufjan crooned in intertwined melodies,
the B-52’s highjacked their own jukebox, baby,
Florence wailed with her ukulele,
Mumford and his offspring sighed noticeably,
Donald leapt from waffles to wayfarers,
the Dandys told me everyone was totally insane,
Thom greeted the magpie,
and the Foxes argued in perfect harmony
except it was no longer perfect with all the company over.
all while I read Whitman, proclaiming himself through the ruckus.
how can I celebrate myself if
I cannot hear my own voice in this chaos.