I have an echo dot,
a virtual sort of companion.
Whenever anybody asks me if I'm worried
that she may be spying on me
I always wonder
"why would they choose to spy on me?"
which is enough to dispel my worries.
Besides, I've grown attached to this funny machine
who plays my music for me.

I've read a lot
(and heard a lot I suppose)
about how gravity is an inevitable,
almost evil force.
Which holds us to the ground
keeping us from flying.
I enjoy it,
the simple angst in those words,
yet they are untrue.
Without gravity,
the earth would fly (apart)
and quite literally explode.
So I think I'm good with it
for now.

As I glance up from my essay,
my thoughts on outdated machines,
motes of dust catch the light and my eyes.
I know that they are made of discarded things
(skin cells, tiny bits of hair, molecules of old clothing)
in this moment they could be diamonds.

Just because I told you it was okay to cry
didn't mean I wanted to make you.
Now I hear a song on the radio
that I've never heard before
but could swear it was once yours.
This is not an apology
nor a cry for help.
It will not end or begin with me on my knees.
It's me thinking aloud to myself on paper,
letting my thoughts stream out of me like an opened bottle.
Indeed, I don't think I love you anymore,
but somedays I wish I did.
I thought you might want to know
that some days, when I'm alone,  
I say your name aloud
and can taste its flavor on my tongue.

I don't believe in poets.

It's a word commonly used
(especially on this site)
that I disagree with.

It's a word used
(I think)
to make us feel better,
special,
even elite.

We are none of those things.
We are ordinary people,
the ones you pass by on the street,
the ones whose eyes you look into and fall in love for a split second
before the metro doors open.
We are the ones who bag your groceries
or work at your governments.
We are the ones who are depressed
financially struggling
or perfectly content
& brimming with money and good looks.

We are not extraordinary,
like those from a great odyssey,
an ancient tale of wisdom and war.
We are not special or notable.
We are not perfect or unique.

Our poems are.
That should be enough.

There are infinite things to write
To transfer from my tired mind to a piece of blank paper
There are an abundance of words
And even more so thoughts and feelings
So why is it that when I touch my pen to that blank sheet
Any hint or semblance of organization disappears
And I am left with my words scattered
Floating in the void?

I toil in anonymity
These words will not be read
You will not drink what's in this cup
These thoughts will not be said.

I'm buried on the internet
Far out of Google's reach
In basements stacked between thick tomes
No students will I teach.

I'm outside of your consciousness
My plight will draw no tears
I will not be anthologized
On passage of the years.

I shout among the swelling crowd
And blend into the hum
I'm heard here by myself alone
No more will I become.