the works of America’s greatest living poemetrist, alive or otherwise.
i wish it were easier,
this dream of mine
to be alive.
instead, i struggle
to merely wake.
being me
is not the worst thing
that could have
happened to me,
but it’s bad enough.
sitting in my room
waiting for the snow to come,
but it may be
a week away.
that’s ok….
i’d like to think better of myself,
but i find that’s hard to do
given that its me.
my long habit,
my comfort zone….
the window, open
by my head
as i wait for sleep,
cool air and warm coverings,
but sleep just doesn’t….
the new year tells me
i’m that much closer
to the end of everything.
as if i needed
that obvious reminder.
tik-tok
is not the sound
of days
falling behind
into the past….
the crazies
and their schemey dreams
of shots fired
into the snarling face
of lawful tyranny….
so many things
i could do today.
so many options!
i could, of course, die.
not my first choice….
my tea
is about
three degrees
too cool
and that….
someday
i will not be tired.
i am not
looking forward
to that day….
i write with fear,
always with fear,
which is funny
since i only write
the words….
i have never been
a tough person.
i quit when things get hard.
i cry easily for myself.
i hide so i can pretend to be safe.
was that junior high cafeteria
really that big?
were there really that many kids
all looking at me,
all laughing at the sorry loser….
i opened my eyes
(at last)
and did not like
what i saw.
it got no better….
