My words
are not yelled
into any sort of
vast existence.

No
they are mumbled
forgotten
cast into a very small
and very personal
oblivion.

My voice
can be confident
collected
but I feel that more often I falter and I can sometimes ramble beyond
the extent of
anyone's interest.
When it's not self-destructive
my words are roadkill
letters splattering
as a new voice rams them over
thieving attention
leaving my words behind
battered and squashed.

They won't cross the road again.

My relationships
are fleeting
a nod
a hello jake whats new
not much
not much depth of friendship.

My poetry
isn't.
It's graffiti
an invalid dash of pixels
upon the sterile, inhuman surgery room
background of this website
from the moment it exists it will be painted and paved over by quick and emotionless
brush strokes of new words.
My tumor
created by my own cells
recklessly and harmfully multiplying
until removed.

I am not sad
I am not any flimsy definition of feeling that places a fragile blanket over the subtle and markets them as obvious.
I'm not much right now
numb
but I associated that with jarring, tumultuous
static from a television set
but I am oddly
but not so oddly calm.

Voices sound from downstairs.
I type here
knowing that my thoughts
my voice
my words
my fleeting emotion that is so strong at times that I am calloused
will never escape
my very small
and very personal
oblivion.