day 1

stillborn ideas

in a list on my iphone

interwoven with views of

feeds of thoughts

of complaints of people

that i only ever think of

synthetic radars

inorganic thought patterns

other people’s kisses and dinners

and ends to their job searches

make me constipated with poetry

make my writing hand cramp

make me wonder if i should post my next poetic waste.

goals with the wrong intentions

a before and after picture

the proving wrong of invisible thoughts

almost pornographic

when did we become so transparent

and so guarded

i told myself i would write every day

i always intend to write,

it’s just nothing ever seems perfect enough to

put into verse.

That’s like saying,
“I always intended to visit my mother,

But I never got around to it until she was safely nestled underground.”