overwhelmed.
I try to write a poem.
poetry is the kind of science
that is liberatingly
and exhaustingly rid
from doctrines.
so I do what I do best
mother fucking poor the but ends of what I may or may not be
watch it fall into whatever pattern it chooses to gather
and call it all
all of it
all the tilted faces and soulless
eyes of men I want to be
men drenching into their seats
morphing into their bedsheets
because their thoughts
are poisones venom that slips into their
eyesight
sense nerves
morning breath.
and they live in misery
and since I was
as small as I ever were
I wished to be them
and I thought
I was absolutely ridicules
for wanting to be a man
that lives
with death.
I dont want
I dont wake and think
let me
be miserable today
let me drench my self in the brutality of nature
flowers tilting and withering
rotants jumping off cliffs
no one wishes for heaviness.
I dont wake imbedding my own sorrow
my own real
ization
of this particular ride to school
this particular class
and teacher
and how terrible
and dead her tone
speaking the miracles of life as if talking about
her fucking cup of tea and
for an instant
I want to strangle her and snatch away
her textbook.
its alright.
this is my homeostasis.
and not every homeostasis is the same.
I have always wanted to be Hemingway
and its stupid to want to be Hemingway

I cant help it.
the composition of what I am and
what I want t be
and how much of it
is self inflected
is immensely illogical
and
it overwhelms me
and then I write
some more poetry.

but my poems are exactly the same
and I'm sorry for that.

I wish I were a tree.
and I had the ease of wind caressing my leaves
and there was hardly
any tragedy
in fall
we fall
go back to the earth
and imerge again.