absurdisim.

I seem to be growing into chaos.
most of my life
I have know so
so little
such a
laughably dismissible amount
except poetry
I had met a small amount of people
who know more about poetry
who have read more poems
than I did
I read thousands of poems
sometimes
I read poems and they felt so familiar
I read them again
without knowing.

but it was such a pleasure
the world and all its vitality existe with such enormous magnitude
and I could be
I could be fully in that peacock cocked forward
sensation of questioning and feeling
without discomfort or limitation
without
a shred
of shame




these days
I seem to reincarnate
upon the ticks of clocks
I am born a new
and its such an ugly homely
little disposition
I cannot place my feet
I cannot early breath
I cannot just read
why
at every single turn of a word or page
all things painted with the dull hugh of what I have known

I read about others talking about things
for the mere glamourous idea of them
I feel them

these days
I wach videos about science
and there is still the passion
and that room
for inquisition
and I dont know much about poetry anymore
I dont remember the last time I read a poem
or wrote one
out of drifting stamina
and not out of
-once again-
fear.

and I surely dont remember
when was the last time I learned something
about the world
or about
my self
through a poem

what
have I
done?