is
the poem enough
can
all be said within
do
i need to write a novel
tell
my story beginning to end
give
it the title
a
lost soul posing as an artist
chapter
one, page one
“boredom
abounds
a
myriad of sounds
cascade
across my consciousness
absence
of bliss
i
run to your kiss
and
call upon a casual causality
fragmentary
fragrances
unfolding
in my mind
i
took a pause
to
find the cause
but
all that i could find
were
afterbirth
and
songs of mirth
and
dreams left undefined”
well,
maybe not
it
would be just another
esoteric
etch-a-sketch
that
no one would understand
but
me
the
rejection driving me further
down
the rabbit hole
oh
i try to function
but
truth is
i’m
just hiding in plain sight
ready
to ignite
and
taste the ash of my decomposition
filling
out forms for the requisition
then
standing by the mailbox
for
all eternity
waiting
for the delivery which never comes
nobody
bothering to tell me
that
i have already died
staring
at me with
dead
soulless eyes
my
super power is unmasking
the
sorrow they try to hide
it’s
raining
i
walked in it
now
i’m watching it
and
goddamn if it isn’t
saturating
my depression
with
an extra ladle full
of
sour sauce
god
has my depression taken hold
i
don’t know where to come in
out
of the cold
i’ve
done therapy, prozac nation
oh
and this stupid fucking writing shit
i
am a cigarette unlit
in-between
the fingers of a non-smoker
folding
with four aces
in
the last hand of poker
and
it doesn’t fucking help
that
i’ve ridden to the roadside of nihilism
a
two lane highway
so
dark headlights are useless
and
everyone just gets out and walks
very,
very slow
and
what spark or flicker
may
light my way
will
have no ignition point
after
i die
how
i envy the eyes
that
lifts to the skies
singing
oh
Lord, how great Thou art
my
community is of a bunch of smokers
i’m
always generous with mine
and
if i’m out
someone
is always happy to give
oh
the lives we live
after
we extinguish
and
go our separate ways
i’ve
tried to quit
but
it’s like a cult
making
it impossible to leave
but
i don’t hang out too long
what
would i say
except
that i suck
share
these thoughts on parade
which
i can’t get high enough to barricade
and
stop the endless procession
of
their march
first
world problems
trapped
like sardines
and
salty sausages
unable
to capture
the
canary or the crane
reading
about the train
and
all that christiaan pasquale experienced
it
doesn’t matter if it makes sense
when
you wallow from depression
you’re
a cloud covered eeyore
by
a sunny forest stream
unable
to feel anything but the rain
i
guess a poem is enough
to
discuss and convey
a
novel or play
may
be more entertaining
but
as i said
i’m
not finding any of this much fun
i
don’t want to feel this way
channel
it into a five act play
that
would take me months to write
like
living in the constructs of a religion
that
doesn’t allow for a divorce from depression
a
momentary confession
because
that’s all poetry is
a
moment
and
those of us outside the atonement
make
the most of moments like these
like
pasquale tasting the breeze
from
a train passing five feet from his face
i’ve
bowed my head before the statue
saying,
“full of grace”
trying
to identify with the religions
that
prays to a goddess
but
my depression is a concession stand
that
sells everything for free
till
i am full of things that are worthless
and
i begin to understand
(if
not truly contemplate)
suicide
it
would just make everything stop
there
are no storms raging around
all
is inside
like
an alien that has burst out of my chest
turned
and devoured
a
shape shifter that lets you see
stars
through the trees
while
i dwell on why
the
tree tops block out patches of the sky
the
cat comes from outside
rain
escape
races
muddy paws across the table
paw
prints on my poems
i
wonder how many beers
bukowski
spilt at his typewriter
staid
sentences in silhouette
and
i am starting to feel better
dirtied
these pages with my poems
like
the last mound of dirt
laid
on a grave
writing
may not save
but
it strengthens me enough to smile
as
i take the stage
and
pretend i am something i’m not
***
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