Looking back over my poetry
I find
I'm an amazing writer.
I find
That it's only when I'm sad.
I find
That utterly disappointing.

Or
Rather
Nothing is meant to.
I'll work with you
To make forever
A
Truth.

They say,
"You have a bright future, ahead,"
This, I say, is a lie.
Maybe because
another of my underclassmen
Was arrested
Maybe because the valedictorian,
Of my class,
Dropped out of collage
To further their knowledge of psychedelic drugs.
Perhaps,
It's a broken education system.
Perhaps,
It's the absent parents.
Who knows,
But as of now,
As things are now,
The optimist in me can see
That our futures are all quite grim.

Sometimes,
I get tripped up
when I think of going back
to
who I once was;
a poet,
a man with his head held high
and
chest pushed out
like some sort of
sixties super hero.
Can I really replicate that?
Can I write poems as I once did?
I find that in these times
words
fall
like
a
waterfall
from my head,
through my nervous system,
into my chest
where a gust of wind
is pulled between my lips,
down my throat,
into my lungs
where it becomes vibrations
climbing out of me
like the victim of a car crash.  
then comes my teeth,
The porcelain wall.
my mouth,
the black hole.
Nothing seems to escape me anymore. I find that
in times of utter contentedness,
I can not speak. "
It's hard to write content." Unbelievably difficult,
unbearably so.
Yet, here I sit,
tapping away at my phone screen, dividing myself from my surroundings by vibrations of sound.
Yet, here I sit.
Trying to pull the lid off
of
this porcelain vase.
Yet here I sit
begging my body to let go,
some of these words
are to heavy to hold.
And  
some
to light to be held back.