my life is either empty

or too full to appreciate what’s there.
i must set off from the middle
and get lost
if only i wasn't so obsessed with figuring out where i am.

the poet in me is shorthand for everything i dislike thereof
his clumsy wrist smudges what there is of worth amid his average words.

the soul is in the noon shadow of the very profoundest rock bottom
and the receptacle fills with sorrow still
joy erupts subterranean and bursts high enough to stain the heavens
no matter where they fall
for they must fall if we’re all to eat.

i am learning i cannot deal with silence
because for too long it has sharpened my inner ear
and it is cutting into something unpleasantly.