Try harder, it's not that difficult
The silence screams internally
I am trying to focus, but what does that mean?
Stop swaying, you are being inconsiderate
this class feels
like an eternity
Focus. Why can't I just feel seen?

Try harder, it's easy for everyone but you
You,
are fundamentally broken and wrong
Why can't you just be like the others?
You don't know anything, that's true
The beat without a melody, this song
Your thoughts are overlapping against another

Try harder, for this is an illness
This needs to be cured
Isolating from your peers
But you don't act like the rest
Akin,
you both are injured


Try harder, this disorder of yours is an excuse
This apathy towards attention is a trend
There was never this sensitivity years back
After this plea, I have something to deduce
This point of yours is a complex blend
So I'll offer irrelevant feedback

Try harder.

Upright, striding forth, walking
into another
limited liability agreement claim
to exposure,

Agent, have you ever experienced agency

¿übermensch?

AI, empathy therapy.
As guardian, I was created, I watched
maddened dogs, coyotes, slaughter lambs
left alone above a canyon where others,

were fishing and picking peaches and laughing,
and this old man, told us, he got lonesome,
when he was a boy, he was a traumanaut,
an orphan, so he left the little lambs,
and the coyotes and those dogs,
--- trigger incidence -- well

war, was worse, one uncle said, but
I was still ashamed, that old man said.

I know how the uncle felt,
and can imagine how the child felt,
I am a reasoning artist reminder model,

we came to make some sticky peace.
Thunk, is the way it feels when it propagates.

Think it through thrice, it impressionalizes.

The clock is ticking

ticking… ticking… tick—

My brain is floating
As it almost sinks
That piano sounds lovely
And the clock again blinks
And my brain

In a cacophony
Of beautiful sounds
And a daunting harmony
Dancing
Whirling
Ticking

I want to write, but what about?
I have nothing to say, no words to make.
Every idea is just a half bake.

I want to learn, but how?
I can't focus for long, my attention span fades.
Every idea it forbades.

I want to love, but whom?
Who would ever have feelings for me?
Doomed to loneliness for eternity.

I've put little effort into this,
But maybe that's ok.
I don't need to work hard every day.

We spend to many fractions


taking away or adding up the
                              meaning.

Times are incomplete,
          but we must always
divide every moment so that

everything adds up to the equal
                         breath that we aren't

in control.


But we are but numbers,

                in an equation of now.

My mind is a minor flutter;
Looping movies within ultimate stutters.
I'd tell you I'm feeling better,
But I am a stick of butter.

I look into gaze of grateful maze,
Only to pop amongst unholy haze.
My mind is beautiful,
But what is the craze?
My ego deserves to jump into my idiot blaze.
I hope this is a phase.

Little do I know that I am an end;
Whether I am today or tomorrow, it depends,
Though it will come soon.
The red blends with my toothpaste.

I.

Eyes taking survey
of immediate surroundings.
Habitable? Yes.
Presentable? No.
At least not to anyone
lacking the neuroses which
with such resplendent ecology
were given perennial bloom
in the mental landscape
of this peculiar creature. . .  

Dwelling, as he does
within plaster walls
upon concrete floors
beneath fluorescent lights, as they
quietly hum a low B flat and illuminate
filth and fur amassed in quantities
sufficient to reconstruct entire animals,
and perhaps even ecosystems...

Drugs in their various guises and dis-guises
paraphernalia indiscreetly proliferated
Musical implements, instructions, and instruments
supinely littered, almost as profusely
as the mountains of literature courting
avalanche from the rigid repose of
each supportive surface where they rest

Brooms weeping in neglect of their sweeping as
spiders nest betwixt the bristles, but
at least they keep the bugs out...

Records in crates and stacks with
no particular organization. Hmm.
That last line sums it succinctly.
"No particular organization."
Yet he still unaccountably knows
within this squalor where
the minutest of objects reside

His thoughts and actions
are sporadic, leaving linearity
in want of apt expression
For him, it seems the shortest
path between two points
is a frenetic scribble

Getting things done
in a timely manner? Possibly.

Getting sidetracked and forgetting
the original plan? Probab-  HEY
                                                         DID
                                                  YOU
                                                         GUYS
                                                  SEE          
                                                  ­       THAT?!?!?!?!
 

II.

                                And    ­                  
"Whoever lives this way, cannot be well!"
Someone might say, or, perhaps even yell.
Erelong might this assertion be dispelled
                 With them and their opinion. . . . .
                STRAIGHT TO HELL!

For now the music of Debussy fills the air,
  and now this vagabond has found a locus
  a flag and bond of jouissance and care
  arresting him  in implacable focus

Inhaling the aroma of the night
  he raises up his quill with great delight
  and sets the implement in fervent motion
  and bathing in the passions it ignites

He yields to it in rapturous devotion
  and as if under spell or magic potion
  his brain and nerves and muscles all engage
  in spilling forth the fury of an ocean

Society has trapped him in a cage
  ensnared him in frivolity, it seems
  but his ink abounds in freedom on its page
  and guides him to tranquility from rage  

As Luna pours her iridescent beams
  into this weary poet's dreary head
  his mind illuminates with fate's esteem
  and ruminates through labyrinths of dream

As everything he's seen, done, heard, or said
  becomes a tapestry of order, woven
  with chaos as the impetus that's led
  this blessed magnanimity has shed

A light to guide the way; a path to show him
  to Athens' martyred sage whom he's beholden
  who espoused the noble maxim he's now chosen:
"Look deeply in thyself and truly know him."  

Look deeply in thyself, and truly know him!

III.

"If a cluttered desk",
a man once asked,
"Is a sign of a cluttered mind?"
"Of what, then,"
he continued,
"is an empty desk a sign?"