the works of America’s greatest living poemetrist, alive or otherwise.
the early morning song
of the early morning birds
in the cool of the early morning spring
reminds me
that soon these birds….
being alone,
as i am
as we all are,
a being, alone,
a human being….
23,500.
that’s how many days,
more or less,
i have been on
this planet.
today i am using
the correct pen.
funny how that matters
in my head
and nowhere else.
a room full of kids
being kids
and a son
i haven’t seen for so long
that he now has….
i was supposed to be living
better than this;
that was the agreement
i made
in exchange for being free….
life is hard enough
without the need
to start over
every damn day.
i wake, tired….
you are asking a lot
to ask me to
care about others
when so few other
care about me.
i keep hoping to find
that secret crime
locked inside my head,
that heinous act
committed against me….
some people can afford
for life to be unfair.
literally.
i cannot.
i cannot pull out….
you pick your god,
and i’ll deny mine,
and the other 7 billion
lost and hopeless
will do as they choose….
i have to admit
although i was
genius enough
to invent
a time machine….
“i have never been free
to live my life!”
sounds like the kind of
hyperbolic nonsense
an angsty seventeen-year-old….
when they said
i was too old,
that i was
useless & uncool
and no longer….
i still want my life
to mean something
in a way
that relieves me
of responsibility….
