i used to be obsessed with the idea
of rhyming poetry…
back when i was obsessed
with the idea of perfection.
now that i’ve realized that
i am simply not perfection material,
my poems cease to rhyme,
and are scattered and unrelated,
quite whimsical and ridiculous.
like this one.
originally, this conquest for a therapist
consisted of my mother wanting me to want help.
then i became interested in the idea of help,
and now i can’t find one i like or trust.
and after seven or eight different shrinks,
i’ve come to the realization
that maybe it isn’t them that i don’t trust,
it’s me.
the library is quiet,
quiet enough to hear my own thoughts.
which i would rather ignore.
the thoughts of who i was,
who i am, and why i’ve changed.
i would prefer to stick to the
maybes, the shoulds, and the woulds-
the past and the present
and much too defined.
much too permanent.
and permanency has never
been my thing.
i would much prefer
the library to be loud.
its silence allows my to hear myself.
and i’d rather be deaf
to my own thoughts.
