gold and white sunrise
opening softly
with narrow lines

blank stares out the window
sitting at my dining room table
slouching and crouching
towards something blue

i realize
it’s all a lie
as i struggle with
sentience
and
structure
too much input
all the time
then suddenly nothing
for days
it’s a goddamn crime

brilliant introverts think
it’s better to use
fewer words
but it’s never that
simple
there’s just too many
ideas
repressed, compressed
and
there’s always a lack of
rhythm

poetry
why do i write this shit
I swear it’ll be the death of me

fuck it
on with the execution
the gods have had their moment of laughter
now it’s my turn