| Pic from Instagram (@pp_poetry) |
Thoughts are a relief
Even the unwanted ones make sense--a little bit only, but they do.
As I come back home,
I aimlessly lie in bed,
My head facing the ceiling
And I don’t feel like moving.
It feels good to behave like a statue.
The bed sheet talks to me,
The walls talk to me,
And the fan
And the ceiling
And the worm-eaten books
And their dead writers—
They all talk to me;
I feel good
I feel bad, too
I feel all, I feel nothing at all
I am happy they eagerly talk to me
But I don’t believe they really understand
My story.
The accidents Kill a few men,
The murders kill a few men, too
And oh, the bomb blasts kill a lot of men
But nothing kills all of them
Nothing claims to be so ghastly as to
Vanish away the entire humanity from
This fucking world,
They don’t kill me completely, either;
How painful it is to know that!
Give me enough money to eat, travel, fuck and survive
I am going to be well okay with it
But let me write in this small room
I won’t harm you in any way, I promise,
Or else,
Kill me the way you kill the few men out there
I think that would be
Quite a relief.
