there's enough poets to bury the sun

 

I only write at night
usually in silence
or whatever
the weather gives me

always the same tricks:
love
how I miss it
when I have it
lust
because I'm human
and aging
hate
for myself and my own
kind
philosophy
I know almost nothing
and believe in less
weather
because I thought
I was writing poetry
and what is it without
a mention of
wind, rain, sun and
the moon never looks real
to me
and it's not

like a babbling child
stuffing
whatever fits in its mouth
learns what it is

never tasted moon before

I'm feeling bodies away
from myself
and introspective
on nights like this
when I feel it all flush out
to slowly die

everyone's a poet these days
writing about flowers
and angels
and the soul of God
that they've never, ever
tasted

I'm no poet
I'm just nettlesome
relaxing aloud
letting you read me breathe
in and out and


in