the wilted flowers on my balcony.

The flowers on my balcony bloom
but shed their petals in a week.
The floor is now an aftermath.
I sweep up the shredded white
and place them into the soil.
I live so comfortably well that
I only have to kill once in a while.
An ant, a spider. A wayward fly.
Tonight I will sleep without guilt.
Tomorrow, I will wake fresh-eyed
to find that the world has become
the same awfulness it was last night.
As angry, angry men sit tall in their
highchairs of power, I will be here,
eating breakfast alone in this house
filled with sunlight. With each new
day, I come closer and closer to
accepting the reality that I cannot do anything.
My words vanishing like smoke signals,
nobody in miles around, a vise slowly
chewing on my skull. I wake to a ocean
drying itself up with a rag made of
skin. I see a person walking backwards
into the sea’s stomach. I think of my friends
who I know have been worse off than me
and remain so. This is the ugliest scene
I have had to confess to recently, seeing
myself in the murk of a lake but then
finding their faces at the bottom of it.
My own problems I drop one by one,
watch them sink through the slit and
mud, a small inconspicuous bubble,
roughly the size of my voice, floating
to the surface. Maybe there is heaven
after all, but maybe God doesn’t exist.
Does anyone else share this neurosis?
Is it fair for me to be happy? Not sad?
I feel so small and everything is just
the right size to crush me. Crush me.
I’m sitting alone on the bus right now,
and everyone feels like an informant,
watching this shuttle breeze through
empty space, building after building
fading away like eras. Maybe I need
therapy. Maybe there isn’t any real
good in this world except for what
we can muster up. The spare change
we’ve left in our pockets, sticking up
for the little guys. Recently, I let him
build a web in the corner of my room.
I can clean it up, easily, but I let him
make a home until it disappears.
The only kindness I can afford him
is that I will not be the one who does the killing.


Usually I take 5 minutes, but I didn’t time this time around. I haven’t written any poetry for a while, and I still want to stick to freewriting, but I think I’ll make it less stressful for me by removing this self-imposed rule. I’ll just write until a decent base is done, then I can come back and work on it later.

These past few months, I have been busy with life and other things, but now I have some time to devote to writing again. I’ve barely written anything submission-worthy, so I need to get back into the swing of things.

This piece is inspired by some internet drama my friends got into recently. I can’t help but feel a bit powerless, so I finally had a source to write from – anger.

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