Feeling so numb
Isnide an empty skull
Thoughts drum
        Rat-at-tat-tat  
Body shucked and hulled
Just the inside, a soul
Remains to cull
Processing as a whole
The inner realm in full
Is not always so fun

everywhere
around me
all I hear
and all I see
is this so called
“love"

and I can’t help
but to think
why
can’t I
have any of it?

Where does the poet go for inspiration?
No place is big enough
Little country tea cups
Quarts of ocean
Entire planets in the palm
Not here not here

Where does the heart go for being?
Everywhere is big enough.

Thrown
with a prayer
the numbers will decide
how the night will end
will a rabbits foot help?

I am many people,
a mask for every situation.
The real me is lazy and lets that happen,
watches from somewhere
and doesn't get involved.
You think I am listening to you.
My masks are skilled at attentive expressions,
but I'm somewhere else.
Writing the next line of a poem.
Visualizing the process
of getting ready to and going fishing tomorrow.
Thinking through a long, detailed argument
to disprove an opinion full of errors
I thought up myself.
Figuring out how to fix something
that isn't broken yet.
When I say I will change
and work harder to pay attention,
that might not be me talking.

A rushing blade there to public transport
still only fog compartment
rains upon their chests though letters as you are now glory
with gesture or unspoken allure

ye more intriguing with grass in their haystacks
and we're bridge burning with lure that fish underground
with swelter of climate to beat the heat through hale