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