the works of America’s greatest living poemetrist, alive or otherwise.
the first thing to go
when i get to the part
known as
editing the poem
is anything that could be….
my dreams
are simple enough.
perhaps
that’s the problem.
suppose….
i hate mirrors:
they remind me
that i exist.
my tragedy
compared to
other tragedies(
yours is
not less nor….
there’s a tenderness
i miss
more than i can say
for i have never
felt….
if only
there were a reason
for all the sadness,
pain and suffering,
a reason that made….
people claim
the world is complicated
and the problems we face
are hard.
that’s a lie….
how easily i break:
a word,
a thought,
another failure added
to a long lifetime of failures….
who i am
is not
who i want
to be.
the problem is….
by the millions
they come and go,
these humans
who try so desperately
to prove they are….
the emptiness of this world
is where it waits,
the silence that allows me
to get up and walk
away from the noise….
being human
and being happy
are clearly
two different things.
we could be happy….
humans aren’t satisfied
with “propagating the species”
as a reason for existence,
so we make up stories
about god and higher purpose….
the bullies,
when i was young,
were girls & boys
who needed
to let me know….
i don’t expect
to wake each morning
(any morning)
with a happy smile
on my face….
