I got a poem in the cereal box this morning
And it was very nutritious for my soul
And another thing
No sugar

I am so tired of being myself
Day in and day out
Could I be someone else
Someone sure that does not doubt

I am sorry I do not want to talk to you
I just feel sick inside
It is not cold and it is not the flu
There is just nowhere to run, nowhere to hide

And now you ask me if I am okay
As I begin to smile
If I tell you the truth I will ruin your day
So I will carry this burden another mile

the air coming off it,
if it is cold
then you are warm
and the two
meet in your hand

how are your toes,
does the carpet
feel like sand

seen enough of the sky
to be certain
when pulling the trigger

you reflect what you believe in
so does the bullet
so does your finger

you thought you saw
the sky more clearly
when you closed your eyes
on a sunny day

a message can be passed with a word
or a gun
and you did not delay.

the poet steps up to the podium
they turn to the page that is marked
grin at the crowd
and begin
by recalling how to breathe

"Are they choking?"

"Is this part of it?"

"No, I think that they are actually choking."

"No couldn't be, it's part of the show, relax."

the crowd applauds
with many a cheer and shout

then retreating to the exit signs
with a body on the floor

if anyone asks

it's too late,
the poet has died

choking on ideas.

"What were they choking on?"

"No idea."

if i
could understand
this grain of sand
my problems
would go