tired in that way
I beat myself up over.
comparing use of time
in the way
super deep books state
one shouldn’t.
struggling not to insert
wanting to get this over with.
I’ve already run the course of that path.
fortunate me
has folks taking from time not guaranteed
to read what I share.
everything is honest and real, true and such.
written knowing
I may still be playing illusions
as substance.
so the body aches
in ways a mind could spend weeks figuring out
inert.
the couch be calling me, yo.
voicemail not listened to.
lazy luxury of purchased meal
a sign
in my debted state.
might as well note
the sun’s change of position.
false dilemma of indecisive.
pretending I can psychic my way
towards perfect next move.
waiting in the confines
for neuron spark
that will justify
sitting an eternity
(in my melodrama)
with this
mug of coffee.
the sun begins to cast longer shadows.
I can feel the conflict in the words.
all the teachings didn’t prepare me
for the challenges
of this patience.
in another life, maybe it was during the 90s,
I asked without knowing
the walking I’d have to do alone.
this ego still complains
about its invisibility.
though I long for comfort of practiced past,
the thousandth poem as easy to type as the first re-worded.
board games bear little fruit
after all probability explored.
I am but a child, tired of dancing
to the same song
with my hammer.
the time machine, thankfully,
is not literal.
striving for more than
onion layer declarations,
I work
to explore at the risk of
all that I fear becoming.
is this the poem? strangers in the television.
is this the poem? darkness around our confessions.
is this the poem? readers stumbling through their messages.
is this the poem? barking in the streets for pleasure.
is this the poem? calling all from above to lie down.
the work is greater
than my want.
the will is more
than my claim.
the way is just, whatever.
I’d tell you about these connections,
but it would lack the right dots
for your brain space.
everyone who doesn’t allow me in
has to take a drink.
I refuse to die
in the cloak of perfection
and the excluding nature
of greatness.