283/365

damn. gotta write
this stupid poem again.
what kind of maniacal
idiot makes a commitment
to his own
obsessive
compulsive
tendencies.

nothing reminds us
of the monotony of everyday
more than trying to capture
the magic os everyday.  

how many patterns are spinning
on slow motion centrifugal force cycles
like tree rings and spinning vinyl.

falling in hate and love
with these incessant habits.

i’ve forgotten the sound
of crickets at night
or what stars look like.
every verse mired in victimisation
and self pity.  so your bored
in your pathetic ennui and bourgeois
sensibilities. no one needs poems
about that. they say write what you
know. but surely they didn’t mean this.

gotta write
this stupid
poem again.