I do not have the connections for this type of work yet.
I do have but the smell and sound of simmering onions about me.
I try to turn the heat down on the dissatisfaction,
The belief that I am better than I am,
But beliefs create realities.
‘This American Life’ playing behind me,
I am writing again, took me a week of 4/10’s.
Picking a reality to live in next 5 to 10,
This next bid that I will pour myself into,
“You do alot of telling”,
“You are capable of writing better, deeper poetry”,
Name those nameless that put you onto the better versions of yourself,
And then go fuck yourself.
This caffeine anger is real, the overdosing of brain fluids towards a faster pace, a more perfect union, a history that will absolve me.
But the timelines remain, countdowns to the perceived perfection, the finality of it all.
The potted plants by the windows give no fucks,
‘Water me, bring me to the sunshine
I will offer you oxygen to dine upon when you hold your breathe and sit in the dead man’s lazy boy recliner with your indecision.’
I have the piles of lives lived stacked and piled about me.
Too much, grateful, burdened.
We are hoarders of memory,
why do they judge, make tv shows about those with more than their share of physical items in their sphere.
I remember all the passwords, a walking talking container store of wishes for access.
A customs check point that is never manned in my mind allows instagramed friends birthdays, recipes, retailers selling shit I never needed, partially clothed ex’s, kids getting hurt.
My heart aches,
I read a page of work,
The crash is anger and fear, two of my childhood staples I never allowed expressed,
Remain locked in a shell of a man.
Coffee is finished, Onions are done, simmered seasoned and translucent.
I contain them for later use,
But the scent still remains.