Sticks and stones
A few words rearranged
Will they outlast the bones?

Everyone forgot
Tarnished marble and time-weathered plaque
Something's just not right
Somebody is not

Is never the end, vastness
Cerebral expanses,
Horizons, hikes, labyrinths
Within labyrinths within

Every book that ever could be written
Every ever that could ever be
Files, folders, sections
Subsections in subsections within

The human brain cannot catalog
The universal sum
The tally is never totaled
The end is never the end

My hands feel limp and impotent
My fingers half-numb across the keyboard
I've never felt so thirsty for understanding
But nobody in the world is quite what I want

I'm not going to shut my door
Even if all the cold air leaks out
I'll stare into the frame and
Maybe something will jump out
Maybe it'll all just rot with me
Maybe something will happen to me
Because I can't happen myself
All I can do is stare

My poetry season
A fountain of past, mem'ries overflow
Without need of reason
The weird autumn breeze, the open window

I'm not, I am not me
Ghosts and their mourners, dispersed across time
The kid that used to be
I am not me, I am not me
Strange melancholy, a sadness so sublime

Playful smears of ink
And all that they imply
Rubbed across the page
To tease the naked eye

The laundry heap sighs, one shirt less burdened
Ever tense, the afternoon, ever still
Clouds crawl by like television static
Not a drop of rain meets the windowsill

Just a squatter, hidden away
Idle hands, second-hand body
A vacant home, a fragile world
Everything fits a bit oddly

No need to worry, they really do care
They'll fight fires with floods, droughts with monsoons
If things go to ****, they'll go to the moon
If you get too hot, they'll smoke out the sun
They've even got discounts on water and air!

No worry, no fretting, no fear
They won't tolerate hunger
They'll beat sickness with numbers
They'll hire us all on
To build them a new atmosphere