It’s pointless:

I urge myself within my mind,

distracting my thoughts from the

tribulations on which they ponder.

How? How do I relax?

How do I get her to love me

when she doesn’t love me back?

How? It’s pointless.

What’s pointless? My thoughts fight

back, desperately clutching at the

final strands of hope that remain

within arm’s reach. Hope.

It’s pointless. Sunlight slips,

ray by ray, strand by strand as it

fades into a disobliging standby.

Thanks. Thanks for all your help.

I say: it’s pointless.

And yet here I am, writing a poem.

Immortalizing it in stone like the

obnoxious face of a God. Pointless

glory, immortality, humiliation…

It’s humiliating. I humiliate myself

for creative benefit, pleasing my

cravings for creation. Pointless, but

oh so worth it.

And so here I am, satisfying my fetishes

with pointless pondering, hanging up

my tribulations like art in a gallery.

Van Gogh paintings: sadistic masterpieces.

I am humiliatingly human. I have problems,

and so I hang them out to dry in the sun.

And as they swing in the summer breeze I sit,

waiting for the indefinite thunderstorm.

(May, 2016)

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