I’ll Have Damned This Poem

Tonight, I

Feel like the guitarist

Whose finger slips from

The string in the midst of his

Concert.

 

Sweet should it be

To sing and to believe

That I’m alive,

But alas, it isn’t,

Tonight.

 

I feel too large

For my room so I lay

In the larger room of the

House,

 

Playing guitar

Softly as if to keep

Some pocket of silence

In the corners of the walls

Untouched.

 

Is it a matter of

Gaining self-worth?

Is such a thing

Worth gaining?

 

Is it entirely mad

That I feel both selfish

And vacant,

 

Alone,

Yet too crowded,

 

Hungry,

But so full my stomach

Stretches?

 

I can’t sing

As I am a bird

With clipped wings.

 

I can’t seem to

Get any satisfaction

From reading or losing myself

In this poetry.

 

The sky is still cold,

My roommate still lingers,

And I still have not a friend who

I can say I love.

 

Of course, there are

Friends,

But it is me I do not love,

Myself I feel alone with,

Only me who has to

Deal

With this poetry,

 

For who else is to read

Of it?

 

I wouldn’t damn a soul

To this poetry.