I want to write
a poem,
about myself.
Of death,
and exquisite joy.
Weeks on end
with constant pressure,
small breaks,
and no woman to talk to.
This poem,
this life is filled
with unfulfillment,
and then when it isn't,
it haunts you.
Drinkers drink,
smokers msoke,
most of the time
it goes hand in hand.
Sometimes I hate
being the man
to bear the dead weight.
And no, I am not alone,
but,
because of myself,
I am alone.
Having not seen much,
everyday that I grow
is an explosion,
a catastrophe
and then heaven.
And not always heaven,
never when you expect it,
when you need
it.
But heaven when you're being selfish;
when you is me,
vice versa,
and it washes over and you spend
all week
trying to atone for not fully enjoying it.
How much should I wallow in the peace
that sprung from the muck of deep sin?
how much should I allow myself
to feel lowsy for not
enjoying respite?
How many people push
against themselves,
only to realize they're wrong,
and wrong and wrong?
I am always realzing;
always a realization
of myself, of us
through me. And I am trying to be
less arrogant. But
I know things are right;
I know the evil I have
perpetrated against me,
and you,
and I know that isn't always the case.
I know the good.
So, I am tired
of bone and dry,
and full of milk
and honey.
But even though fatigue
settles,
like dust,
I am fine with
this.
I know that this
is. And I am at home
in
this.