I notice the difference
moment to
moment
less, and my
purpose seems to change as
quickly as the palms
blow above me -
this strange wind.

Shouldn't I write it?
Or is it decided?
Or is it too sacred,
never good enough,
scattered,
and self-deprecating
like my thoughts.
A comedy hiding
the tragedy I feel;
I feel too much.

Like the times I just
felt tired and tied,
alone, listening to Coldplay,
and crying, yearning
to remember shades of
yesterday with the same
bright sun.

In the past,
I have yearned for
profound knowledge,
to understand
intense sensation,
general contentedness,
direction and beautiful places,
meekness and worn out spaces.

But I'm tired of contemplating,
the grass green, blue air, slight breeze.
I'm just hacking
incongruent chunks
of increasing size,
left with divets,
and a dull knife.