Often I get worried that my words aren't beautiful enough, when they come out of my mouth they seem to be swimming in saliva and uncertainty
and I get angry and spit and shout and say nothing.
Slammed like poetry readings.
I’m not following in your footsteps,
just repeating the rhythm.
(Teach me about good music
So that when do the dishes and hum
my teenie-bopper, headed-to-oblivion melodies,
you know it is malicious.)
Sometimes i feel like the best way to understand the world is to sit in my bedroom
and look out the window, trapped like the cat,
who, when he sleeps, twitches his paws and
i think he is dreaming of meadows, but really he is dreaming
of the living room chair.
“You should have named that cat Hamlet, he so pensive”
I named him Oreo.