Dissatisfaction

The Selection

I’m tired of the selection,

or is it my own reflection?

Can’t sleep, but I can fake it well.

My thoughts make me sick.

My heart doesn’t exist.

I’m a bad bad person.

Do you believe it?

I’m getting closer every day.

Tie my hands up they keep giving me away.

What? You wanna know what that smell is?

That's just the shit I’ve been eating.

Did I tell you that I’m tired of the selection?

Our Vanity

I can only hope that we turn out different,

that this is just a moment of insanity.

But I think that we will never change,

that we are blinded by our vanity.

I used to be a poet

I used to be a poet.

But to be a poet you have to write.

at least, that's where it starts.

It takes more than that to actually be a poet.

But it all starts with writing.

I should know.

I use to be a poet.

It takes fiddling with words.

The breaking of lines

and ideas.

Finding the concrete

in insubstantial notions

Making the complicated simple or,

Twisting the simple into tangles of immense complexity,

It takes all manner of tools and tricks

to sculpt the simple words of mere man

into the world shaping instruments of a poet.

But what it takes of me most is focus.

To eliminate the chatter of the surrounding world

and sit down

and be still

and write

and not think about results

and not think, “this is good”

or “this is bad.”

But to focus on just writing.

That is hard.

I used to be a poet.

And on some days, such as this, I am still.

But most days I am not.

Sure, I think about being a poet.

I will stare quite fiercely at a blank page.

But as most often happens,

I decide,

“I am no poet today.”