People love
poems and articles about all of the bad things,
substance abuse, broken hearts, broken necks,
poverty, war, depression,
hunger, incest, lethargy,
whatever it is,
and people love those writings because
they feel less
alone.
others have passed through these fires and
a few have indeed come out alive,
it’s perfectly normal—maybe, from what I tell in those poems
for you to daydream about driving your car
into the Atchafalaya Basin
with your ex in it,
or knowing that you could not just end it all
even if you wanted to, because it would give you
no trepidation or pleasure,
just another thing of life’s routine,
or maybe the only reason you
have not jumped off a building
is because the buildings in your town
are not tall enough.
Whatever the case may be,
it is painfully obvious,
we are all miserable on this little planet.
I’m not sure if knowing so makes anything better,
Or if it changes anything at all,
but it is an oddly
nice thought.