I decided to write a poem a day, but
why write poetry when it becomes mediocre, unless
that's like asking, "You know, why live today?
Because I just woke up to another ordinary,
uninspired day, and I am feeling mighty trite,
in a conventional, hackneyed and tired kind of way."
I say to myself, "****,
the air smells like moistness and rotting leaves;
but it wouldn't be the first time."
No, see, this wouldn't be the first time
that I sit to the tune of spinning discs inside of
high-tech boxes, while the windows are
so dark they reflect my white t-shirt and pink skin.
I write poetry tonight, today, for no apparent
reason. Ooh. Maybe I'll inspire somebody; maybe
someone else feels like this; maybe I'm just feeling
sorry for myself, but this is the poem I've written.
And so, today I must sit, irritated, at my desk
and look at these useless words and decide
that today, I have written one more.
Today, I have lived one more
day.