Pen to paper always yields
something even and distilled,
wisdom fermented smoothly from hours of
(How simple it is to calm yourself with words.
The poem is the answer, but the poet sits in unrequited stasis.)
I'd assimilate these perfect sheets,
if I could. Gnaw these lines from buzzing screens
to float as bolstering flotsam in my cavities,
analgesic advice from myself.
(Spelling out the simplicity is so much easier
than letting trivial dilemnas spiral about in your head.)
Deja vu bad dreams; scenarios from which
I wake in my own liquid panic. They're not real,
but hairs stand on end like feelers searching out the inevitable
terrible news: I've failed again.
(Of course it's bound to happen; it always does.
Don't get your hopes up, lest they fall to crush you, spewing out your optimism.)
Don't get my hopes up, because they (i)will(/i) fall
to crush me, spewing out my optimism like this tributary of
mental cold sweat, flooding every other day over with
the unwarranted fear of losing you.