meticulously placed traps
line the sidewalks and the
kitchen floors,
like tar,
coating the layer of sentiments
I probably feel,
and should probably say,
but, oh, how plain simplicity
in affairs
eludes my existence

as I see, out through
the window, to a pile of
dismembered and decaying twigs,
leaves, golden death like
the petals circling my aortae,
that once grew fondly
in presence of
possibilities and opportunities;
to the extent that god only knows (except for you)
how impossibly awful I am,
when it comes to
making the most rudimentary
decisions

only figuring out what I
want, when the options have
dried up
and the puddles
from the storm have
dried out

snared right down into
the hollow grimace of
all these **** traps I keep
throwing down
for my own cruel self.