I could fill each line

Every single blank space

In the entire world

Force it upon people

“Poetry. It’s poetry. I’m a poet”

I would say haughtily

And it wouldn’t mean anything

I could sit and spew words in ink

Wind Elephant Moon Tattoo

And insist that it’s poignant

Only me and the “ignorant”

Would know I’m full of shit

And that I don’t say anything

Everything is disposable

Why should words be different?

I’m not sure, but in rare cases

They are different

And effecting

And altering

These words aren’t

But when it burns right

And your mind makes it to the page

It is—in a way no one can explain.

 

The reality of solitude

Is simple and obvious

Though entirely unspoken

But the practice

The goddamned practice

Is another issue completely

Best described as blurry

And constantly fluctuating.

If we’re as singular as evidence shows

Why are there so many people?

It seems that despite every yin

Having a yang

There is no balance in people:

When one is needed

They’re in hibernation

(or their souls at least)

And when all that’s desired

Is peace and time to sift through

Our individual insanity

You’re swamped by insipid people

Wanting from you

What they don’t give in return