More poetry

I have no idea what all this is about. I never write poetry and generally believe that I can’t. This may still be true, but it’s feeling good lately, so, what the fuck.



It just keeps coming.

It doesn’t matter what I do






Whatever. Doesn’t matter. It will find me.


It moves like sludge

Slinking through the basement of my life

Chuckling, I imagine

At my attempts of escape.

Sometimes it lets me think I have found a way out

And I always take the lure, as optimistic idiot

Trying to believe this time, maybe, I have won

This shift, this change, this bit of work or sacrifice

And then


It just comes slurping back

Sliding over me again.


There are worse things to have, I know.

Things that bite harder, or bring death.

My monster is just annoying most of the time

But annoyance over the span of months

(please do not speak of years)

begins to grate like metal against my teeth

And all at once I turn, and scream, and try to tear it out.

But you cannot tear sludge.

And you cannot hide with what lives in your basement.

Monster it may be

It’s still you.


And so on top of everything else

In addition to all the fucking work

I have to stop trying to escape or beat my monster

And accept it, and learn to live with it.

This is the only escape there is.


This makes me so angry the whole world turns red behind my eyes.


I suppose there are other monsters down there, too.

Monsters of mind, of intent

Sins, maybe

That’s the good news, I guess.

Whatever else is down there

Is deferring to this out of precedence

or fright.

Maybe this is some big lesson: important, sage.

Or maybe it’s just stupid.

Or disgustingly random.

I can’t tell, and I’m tired of trying.

Whatever it is

It is so in front of me that it is all there is.

So I will wrestle with it

And learn to accept it.


But not yet.


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