I keep trying to leave this house
my feet slip into my shoes still warm
from their long day and I can't leave
because a poem keeps trying to feel itself but
my hands keep interrupting the story by adding in words
greater than three syllables and analyzing each pause
like I am Shakespeare
I keep trying to do some good
I lift my legs forwards still eager for the world
but I keep falling flat on my face from trying to push the world and
I want to feel important but I keep thinking about the meaning of importance and thinking normally
amputates feelings because the Renaissance is not my era, and I keep
trying to rinse off my head but every time I empty it out a whisper catches my ear
and my mind ***** it in, like if I can pull in enough noise I can make a great rain of it in my head, enough to clean out my mind. Enough to pour down into my lungs enough to drench me down to my toes and I keep trying to leave the house with my heart still warm from the last time I saw you and my hands still shaking from the last time I touched you and my thumbs still kneading circles into my palms trying to leave my hands behind and I keep trying to leave this house.