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.