Five Minutes(Eight States)

Good God. Good Grief. Good to know You.
I apologize for not keeping up with my own,
uh, comes out of a bull, ends in it? Yeah, that.
What do I write, that even matters? And how
do I condense it into a brick of golden good?
I only see the chafing, of my writing thighs.
Red and raw, and not wanting to put back
on the wet shorts of my mind, and walk.
I still dream of drops, and I like it too.