for I do not know if I should
write in notebooks or on this laptop
that hurts my eyes.

When I hold a pen, and press it to a piece of paper
inside a notebook, I feel alive.
It feels organic.
And the universe notices the concentration
of pure energy.
Nature.

However,
my consciousness flows at tops speeds
all the time.
(literally)
And writing on my laptop
aids the flow.

At what price?
my soul, possibly.
for, its not organic, the process.

It is false.

I look around my residence and see a TV
a Laptop
a Smartphone
and I weep.

Nature is dead.
I am confused.

Poems scattered in various notebooks.
Meltdowns ending with it all
crumpled and in the garbage.
followed by regret
for I just murdered my own children
and threw them in a container
with spoiled cat food,
***** napkins,
empty beer bottles,
and scraps from breakfast (Salsito turkey sandwich)

Nothing makes sense
and nothing I write matters
to anyone

Indeed, I know,
I am simply a poet,
and I crave suffering.

This new millennium genocide
is perfect for a guy like me
who wants to fade away
slowly
and *in pain.

The mind of a poet is

narcissistic
Deranged
Loud
Intelligent
Embarrassed
Scared­.
Scarred
Faithful
loving
Inquisitive

And filled with regret.

It's all ego.

It's all *******.

**** humans.