CALL ME BELOVED

we grow beards and drink PBR out of aluminium cans
to form the impression that we represent the common man
when our aspirations and most fervent wishes couldn’t be
further from common. we wish the best for ourselves
and never picture settling in the places that we do.

I’ve gone a month writing poems for my own self satisfaction
and it’s only deepened the sense of disappointment (not strong enough a word)
that I feel between the moments when I finally hit the pillow,
when that last exhale before the dreams filter in is let go
like a death rattle, because tomorrow is another day
and the fact that potential is all I’ve got left
is still enough to start it over again come the morning.

I’ve gone a month writing poems and it’s left a bitter taste
in my life. I’m thinking in carefully built sentences again,
moving from each minute to the next through proofing marks.
glaring red repetitions of AWK are stamped on my consciousness,
I cannot revise the foundations that I’ve begun already, I cannot stop
writing either – I’ve tried and the pain was too much to bear.