poem

suddenly I want to write again
compulsively on napkins and bathroom walls
feeling like there is too much to ever know where
to begin or to ever say all of it
instead of feeling like it's all been said

The hopelessness I once felt in bookstores and libraries
has utterly dissipated even as I
have forgotten how to spell words,
lost some entirely and
no longer own any pens worth writing with.

This sudden transition, while hopeful
is marked by such a deep unfathomable
sadness
I don't want to show it to anyone
partly because
it is so deep and so wide I
can't imagine that we are not
all in it together
touching fingertips already
I want to show
the darkness to itself outside
in between the trees where
the real world is

Away from the bright city
we have built to distract us
its own adoring idol
the unmade bed of our
lost lust for
the naked soil
beneath our beating hearts.