Wednesday, November 20, 2024

undone

I write my little poems on my phone
And hope that somewhere somebody is reading.
My heart pumps blood, but feels like it is bleeding
Into my chest; my mind is overthrown 
By worries that, like monsters never shown,
Cannot be overcome. I am succeeding
At one thing only: stubbornly impeding
My own sense of connection. I'm alone.
I stare into the phone, and wish to see
Something I have not ever seen in there.
This is definable insanity:
Repeating action (stare and stare and stare)
While hoping it will end up differently.
But where else should I look? I know nowhere.

Wednesday, November 6, 2024

done

My fucking god, I'm just so fucking done.
What is the point? What is the goddamn point?
What can I do or say to anyone
That matters? We're going to anoint
A senile, angry madman as our priest
And while he gets his vengeance, we get hosed.
Can nobody out here see past their nose?
Hey, "Christians," "what you do unto the least"
Should mean something, and if it doesn't, then
What is the point of calling yourself that?
And worst of all, my gender: fucking men.
I wish we weren't. The gas was two bucks flat
When everyone was dying, and now we
Are going back. Fuck this. Fuck history.

Tuesday, November 5, 2024

Philosophical Musings

The morals of philosophy 
Are not too hard to comprehend 
Until you try to certainly 
Assert it to some certain end.
All of a sudden there arise
A thousand little arguments
Each full of tiny hows and whys
For you to pen, each in its fence.
It's like a coastline, and its length:
So easy on a map to see
But measured closely, past the strength 
Of any true cartography.
The moment that you try to claim
A certainty, you lose your aim.