But The Stench Is Killing Me

Here's a glorious poem I wrote for absolutely no reason except to just write. I actually kinda like this one, and I really don't know why.

BUT THE STENCH IS KILLING ME

I wish I could sleep.
God, I'm so tired...
Dead tired, I suppose you could say.

Outside the window
a car speeds by,
the tires screeching on the pavement.

The night air is hot.
A little too hot.
Why am I even using any covers?

I can even hear the roaches
running across the hard wood floor
in search of food... or whiskey.

The day was long.
It went by way too slowly...
Sometimes I wonder why I even try at all.

I spent all day dragging that thing
into my apartment,
and what do I have to show for it?

An old rug covered in blood,
and a body under my bed
that's smelling up the place.