I sit and think
At the most odd hours of day
With old and heavy eyelids
Too old to be my own
But grown that way
From a life of days
Unlike my age group
Or so I think
And I think
When they stop vacuuming
I will focus as I need
And be free
Of this rolling boil
I have been stuck inside
But how can I create
When thats not really what I do
How can I expect
Myself to move
From my seat
And meet my day
Head on
When what I do is write
Poetry
The essence of poetry is laziness
Its what makes poems survive
Through time
Its their lack of activity
Or agenda
Its their consistent
Sitting
And starring
And saying what needs to be heard
Softly
Silently
With old and heavy eyelids
And for the most part
Poetry waits for you to walk up to it
On your smoke break
And overhear
What you needed to hear
Clearly
And until then
It thinks
When they stop vacuuming
I will start to yell
My poetry does not know when that day will come
And wonders if maybe
One day
A fire will eat it instead
When the same people who have never heard of it
Burn this place down
Because
They’ve never heard of it
But I am never worried
I would not grab my hard drive
In a fire
Because poetry doesn’t get lost
In the fire
It jumps
Into the flames
Knowing exactly when to enter
And when to exit
My poetry is not me
I think
I would put the fire out
I think
I would prevent the cause
But the only way I know how
Is poetry
