My pen is dry—literally.
I try to scour up enough ink to mark notes down during class.
Change my penmanship.
Cursive, loopy letters turn symbolic.
Can symbols be symbolic or do we have to make it a metaphor?
The truth is:
I just haven’t been feeling very poetic lately.
Maybe it’s the weather.
It’s fucking cold and I’m
always running
outside to enjoy a brief glimpse of sunlight,
or indoors to escape the cold and harsh precipitation.
Maybe it’s the screaming child below me.
Half choked tear stained screams,
desperate for her mother,
keeping me up.
Or maybe it’s the fact that I’ve been trying to stay busy.
Filling the days with things
that ought to be done
and the nights with fantasy novels.
Gotta stay busy
to avoid solitude.
Trying to sift through the mound of
truths and untruths
still left to decipher
is too daunting a task in the winter.
Grasping for words
concepts
reasons
to bestow
value
meaning
finding none
growing tired of finding
wrongs
I desperately need some
rights
some
hope.
A path towards
good
would be nice
but when I look into the sky
beyond society
beyond humanity
beyond perception
beyond time
beyond space
in search of the fundamental substance of reality
I realize
that no one really has any fucking clue
what is good
or
what good is
