this was easier when I was 17.

I have the sufficient intellect to know that I know absolutely nothing
I read history books
 I do
I read novels and half of them are terrible and the other half is incredible
because I dont think I have the time
to read about things
that are exaggerated beyond recognition to feed our senses
with sheer bits of shallow sweet
i rather real bitter over artificial sweet.

last year
I graduated college
and after 4 consecutive years
of winters and falls and sprinds
and some summers
burnt to the grownd
its remains scatterd
me just holding folded papers
falling through chaose
resesting the nessisity
to just sit at home in a
cesspool
of my dirty underwear
let free
propriety
and more books I just cant read anymore
and more thoughts that stand and pound around the irrugular axess of my
oainfuly mundain brain
that I may fall alll the more
into textbooks and numbers and population
and it rains one me every time
hardly do I have the brilliance
the intellect
the internal beauty
to weep into a typewriter
or a guitar
to go mad
to be set ablaze
and so my butt naturaly
gets stitched
to the couch
and the girl I naively fell for
laughed it all out
and most men so much older than I
say its alright
these moments
pass
you grow older
and you just lose the fliker that eased
the arid pain of giving birth to beauty.



you live in patterns and routine and paychecks
and clashing pure mundainity
and if absloutly nessesary:
you can
without contributing
observe beauty.
because the action
of digging it out
destroys you completely.
I have the sufficient intellect to know that I know absloutly nothing
and that my twenty something mind does not even
comprehend the bases
of destruction.
but I think
let fall destruction
so I shall poorly rummage through whatever
I was and is
for collective beauty
that may ease a being or two.