A poem about the past two weeks...
Too much,
Too little,
Still overwhelmed.
Thinking
And the absence
Of everything,
Of anything,
And thoughts.
Pitted chests
Are no cure
For distended hearts
Or minds.
Then there is
Time
Surging by--
That racking ribbon,
Pricking naked arms
As it runs.
Slowed bodies
House weeping blood
And erratic minds
That coax light
Into cardboard victories;
But these minds know
The speed of darkness and
Carry it on their backs.
Tunnels or spines
Serve as arbitrary passages
For lapsing signals, but
Do they know
That signals
Are only chemicals?
Too much,
Too little,
I don't know if this feeling
Is a choice or something that's given.
Or maybe those innate
Just choose what to do with it.
Gender:
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