Writing things down
Feels like
Plucking hummingbirds
From inside my head
And holding them
In the palms of my hands
In front of me
So that I can
Eye them
Microscopically
Then
Let them go
And finally
Finally
Exhale

At this point in my life
I’m fairly certain
I’ve told more falsehoods than truths
And most of them to my gullible self

I’m trying to remedy that
In the hope of hating myself just a little bit less
(Wait that’s not true)
In the hope of being forgiven if I’m found out
Which, I guess
Is why I’m writing this dumb poem
(Wait that’s not quite true;
I think this poem — and I
Are rather clever)