Every once in a while the poetic energy takes hold of me and I write poems that I look back on later and cannot believe they came from my mind. Sometimes they come at that time between awake and sleeping and I jolt awake and write them down. And when I come back to them later, I have to ask myself, did I write this, or did I hear it somewhere? It’s gotten so bad that if I write something original I have to write “-me” after it or I will have no idea that I produced it. That being said, the poetic bug has bitten me tonight, but it’s feeling a bit lazy. Just wandering in and out of my mind. Disjointed. Too real, not metaphorical enough. Not enough similes nor imagery. Maybe not enough meaning. Just, lazy. Necessarily lazy. Lazily necessary. But I have to scratch the itch or it will light on fire.


To feel. Not feelings, but to feel tangibly.
I drag my fingers across the wall as I walk by.
To make sure my sense of touch still works.

TO FEEL. to feel touch. the outside world does exist.
Press yourself up against the wall to feel its existence.
To feel your own existence. And press into it.
Be the wall. Absorb the wall. Let the wall absorb the loneliness.

The loneliness that manifests in the absence of touch.
That mandates the holding of inanimate objects.

I feel this table exist, therefore I exist.
We grab railings that exist, so we MUST exist.
I hold a hammer and pound a nail into the wall.
I DO exist.

And the weight of the world is on our shoulders.
Making us numb to what we carry.

And we are all broken; it is best not to deny it.
But we must treat others
with the knowledge that we’ve all been broken.
And we don’t.

Not an existential crisis.
The world just holds us too loosely
and our pieces began to float away from us.

Lost pieces we cannot find alone.
The walls can only do so much.
The objects can only give so much direction.

I have found a piece for you.


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