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“The poet said those years she felt depressed.”
The
poet said those years she felt depressed.
I fear one day I will be depressed.
Could this be selfish?
At
these times, I consult books for answers.
A
self-conscious poet acts bemused by those individuals to whom he cannot
relate. The poet condescends.
He asks, “Are you listening to me?”
The
egomaniacal poet behaves recklessly in order to absolve his inner
loathing. He speeds when he drives. He hits on waitresses.
Male
poets dismiss a female poet as young and imperceptive.
The
kindest poet lives alone.
A poet
curls into himself. He looks at
the ceiling and contributes strange, pessimistic musings during
conversation.
Everyone around me writes so candidly about beauty and wisteria, not to
mention starlings.
In the
midst of it all, I have become a child!
Morning
Sadness
Across the sheets saliva streaked the cat kneads human
skating. But cats don’t slide
I wrap
a
tourniquet around
My arm
cut with a pair of open scissors
I hear the turrets underwater
sound another set of
eyes glare back
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