My joints feel loose and battered apart like a broken doll, my ankles like overstretched rubber bands

Mind foggy; caffeine wears off twice as fast

Will low. Wit low. Appetite vague and mercurial, occasional lower body pangs which convince my stomach it has a bug. In search of constant comfort.

The detritus of dozens of “not a big deals.”

My heart skips a beat at a baseball cap
Or at a lone runner, dressed only in black.
Cool-colored curls trapped under a hat
Or tied, cascading across your back.

I’m a fan of mischievous smiles as well;
Glowing complexions put me in a spell.
Habits that show someone wants to rebel,
Or parting gifts during a quiet farewell.

Low voices with gravelly tones
Or pacing after you’ve picked up the phone.
Analytical gazes when something’s not known,
Contained frustration while sitting alone.

These features are lovely in others, it’s true,
But most importantly, they comprise you.

I’d rather make something else
than ever acknowledge it was less than perfect.
“Self-improvement” rings of greedy influencers.
Constant change that of
a flaky millennial who won’t admit she cares about you
who’d prefer staring in the rearview
and changing her hair a third time.
it’s difficult to find this urge to make things better.

Isn’t it odd
that one of the most traditional institutions creates countercultural niche-ers?
Locked up in libraries with products newer than scars
holed up in memories of a better way
re-creating what anyone has said before.
Seems I am one of the prideful.

feels like dark chocolate on my tongue
        smooth nibs butter fruits solid   wine,   mine,
            slowing me down with a crash.
Like,
    the time loop with each instance equally delicious
in
    cream clamor of daylight, hid from yesterday’s enticements
        pinned feathers mark me
           an approved rebel. I hope
zest
    not too bitter, a pairing
       fresh taken in sharper soothing
         trappings of a recipe too small
            all I can do is say it sincerely.

I have an artist’s heart and I regret it
I know I’m better off than those who shred it
when all they seek to worship’s lucrativity
yet trapped in cages of their own passivity.

All I want is deep dives to the hearts
of mine and others. Chugging in the back
in sickness and health, those relentless parts
will carry on, always craving attack.

Why couldn’t you have given me more skill?
A teaspoon’s all I think I’d have required.
I’m told I have more than wholly desired
in other fields, still left unfulfilled.

I know I’m better off than those who shred it.
Why does it feel so difficult to get it?

Oh god, I hate the silence
I have much more to show you
I haven’t been this dull since
I spoke to those who know you.