disproven

unedit this 
un        
                         poetic thing, try to 
make it worse, unpolished--
      unpretentious tihsllub on the page--

unintentionally naked, soul-baring, honest. 
   you cannot be something you intended, for
once you start out, you'll never get
to the end. 

I wonder why things
have to be so difficult, so stiff, so guarded; 
all 
              I asked was for an unassuming  prayer to you--
don't know who I'm talking to. 

I'll try again tomorrow, when
     everything is new and the dry strands of grass push up
 into the sky again, determined
to prove they are alive. 

suddenly

you look at the ground, and
drown in

(except you're really thinking about poetry, aren't you-- looking from the outside in, revelling in the way you cannot see the coffin, words pouring like old coffee from your pen. your hand twitches, but you make a motion to lift your Kleenex to deadened eyes again, every second too poetic, too tragic. bask in it. you're a fool, a poet, but then what poet isn't a fool trading food for ink, crawling on the ground to post graffiti on it-- no wonder writers get jackshit when the money is inconsequential, and all that matters are the)

words
unspoken, no matter how hard you stu-
tter, like an old car, trying to jump start and 
falling
into 
graceless darkness
(it served you well before).

overheard: 
none of this makes sense. 
 

fragments of ego

do you ever
wish
you could just take a knife
scrape down
into your soul
find all the bad things and
cut them out?
(if it doesn't hurt
it's not real-- wake up
again)


rhetorical questions are
the best when you really want
some answers.