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tired in that way

I beat myself up over.

 

comparing use of time

in the way

super deep books state

one shouldn’t.

 

struggling not to insert

wanting to get this over with.

 

I’ve already run the course of that path.

fortunate me

has folks taking from time not guaranteed

to read what I share.

 

everything is honest and real, true and such.

written knowing

I may still be playing illusions

as substance.

 

so the body aches

in ways a mind could spend weeks figuring out

inert.

 

the couch be calling me, yo.

voicemail not listened to.

 

lazy luxury of purchased meal

a sign

in my debted state.

 

might as well note

the sun’s change of position.

 

false dilemma of indecisive.

pretending I can psychic my way

towards perfect next move.

 

waiting in the confines

for neuron spark

that will justify

sitting an eternity

(in my melodrama)

with this

mug of coffee.

 

the sun begins to cast longer shadows.

 

I can feel the conflict in the words.

all the teachings didn’t prepare me

for the challenges

of this patience.

 

in another life, maybe it was during the 90s,

I asked without knowing

the walking I’d have to do alone.

 

this ego still complains

about its invisibility.

 

though I long for comfort of practiced past,

the thousandth poem as easy to type as the first re-worded.

 

board games bear little fruit

after all probability explored.

 

I am but a child, tired of dancing

to the same song

with my hammer.

 

the time machine, thankfully,

is not literal.

 

striving for more than

onion layer declarations,

I work

to explore at the risk of

all that I fear becoming.

 

is this the poem? strangers in the television.

is this the poem? darkness around our confessions.

is this the poem? readers stumbling through their messages.

is this the poem? barking in the streets for pleasure.

is this the poem? calling all from above to lie down.

 

the work is greater

than my want.

 

the will is more

than my claim.

 

the way is just, whatever.

 

I’d tell you about these connections,

but it would lack the right dots

for your brain space.

 

everyone who doesn’t allow me in

has to take a drink.

 

I refuse to die

in the cloak of perfection

and the excluding nature

of greatness.

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