friday morning breakfast with the bastard

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

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