i'm talking to myself again. i am
creating monsters where there were
none.
this place is filthy, and i smoke
entirely too much.
what i'm looking for is a good run on
sentence. what i'm looking for cannot
be found in the pants of a few good
men.
some people think they can fix anything
with only half the effort.
i prefer the people who know better than
that to even try.

and all i've learned of life is death.
and all i know of water is wet.

but love lives here, didn't you know
the welcome mat outside says so.
and every time i dry my hands they call
for more rain
and every time i turn around, i fall in
love with myself again.

(i do not have to tell you that i'm falling in
love with myself again.)

and the words i write keep me up at night.
they hollow out my brain. and all the poetry
i eat is crowding me, begging me to be
something

sane.

and there are those who will read this
and hate it for the way some of the words
rhyme as though i program myself to be like
this, to toss all appropriate lines
all for the sake of rhyming.
(man, talk about bad timing.)

but it isn't that and it isn't this and it isn't
anything worth mentioning because the point
got lost somewhere between writing to
feel and writing to breathe when all i'm really
looking for is some

easy sleep.

10/30/2003

Posted on 10/30/2003
Copyright © 2024 Olivia Weinkein