“DEAR SWEET JESUS!”

I cry, barren, stricken, destroyed and obliterated.

“Where are you?” I ask. “Have you died?”

“Yes,” they tell me. “We are dead. Indeed we are.”

“Lies!” I cry. “How can you be speaking?—

Is it just that you are all hiding under a large rock?”

“Perhaps,” the dead croak, stroking their chins.

“Perhaps so.”

This isn't really a poem. To be honest, it's just me asking all of you little hoes with good stories why the hell you haven't updated in months. Come back to me! PLEASE?