I write my poems for who to see?
No one sees them but me.
Dreams written in a seam.
Heavy and bad like cream.
No one sees but my tree,
lookin in on me.
I wish they could make me free.
But what is free to be?
An American with a 40inch TV?
Unfettered access to the sea?
Nope, just the realization im no more important than a
flea.

signs of life
that sprout through
death
are what inspires me.
Signs of life
that arent really signs,
but, rather,
the sparrow in my chest
singing in unison
with the fog horns.
These are what pangs my soul.
Sheer uselessness.
Lucid daydreams.
Painful talks.
Heavy uninterested eyes.
Everything is such a chore.
What is the use if it is unenjoyable?
I feel the lead blanket of the
sky weighing on my brain,
but i sleep and drink.
These distract in the meantime.
But that is all there is, isnt there?
The meantime.
The meantime.
The meantime.
Distracting yourself in the Meantime.
Time is what we dont have,
thus signifying its
supposed importance.
But what is time to an astronaut?
The meantime.
Same old thing in the Meantime.
So honest.
All time is Mean.
the meantime.