Not Enough Living

I have become acquainted with emptiness, 
with the hollow frantic shape of pure rhythm.

As I lie in bed, 
I anoint myself with sweat. 
And I decorate the air
with words worn as thin as my sheets.  

My window is always open. 
I always smell the season. 

I can see the people walking down the street. 
I can feel the distance in my aching limbs. 

How wonderful it would be to walk down the street. 

To walk with sure feet,
entitled to a destination. 

Yesterday, 
I realized that I will have to sell my poems. 
Because vague idealism is the only thing 
that can come from emptiness and time.

too much time,
not enough space, 
not enough to breathe,  
not enough to filter and sort and make beautiful. 

rocking, widening, collapsing,

sad and terribly distraught, 
because I am not big enough to hold a story,
because I breath the same breaths,
until I finally fall asleep. 

My closet is a mess. 

I dont have the energy
to put things back together
after living.