Poems I Only Write For Myself

Nothing hits the vein

I’m letting the wind set me straight

I can’t let you win

i actually don’t want to go anywhere or do anything

i’d actually like to spend the next 50-60 years

turning to dust at this desk,

eroded at the lake, consumed by my bed

I actually know nothing at all

I don’t want to die, I just want to be still

watch the time pass and be it’s witness

what better reminder that I am alive

than to sit there and soak up

every milisecond

of it

I’m so intimate

with the movement

of the minute hand

savored like

frozen grapes

on a hot day

now isn’t that,

truly living?

when your

personhood

has been

so discarded

it feels

an honor,

a service

to feel,

wait,

hear,

sense,