I want more
of what I cannot have
and less of what I have.
It is always the poem of the day
that brings me joy
written in some notebook
or on a piece of paper
from an obscure poet
that I research in the middle of a lineup
of free coffee.
Where do you come from?
I tried to answer that question once
but failed miserably.
Such vagueness requires a multitude
each with its own seashell story.
I try to be normal
but fall flat on my face.
I am raising my children too freely
I should restrict them
border them up
but I show them to fly instead
and when they leave me too
I will cry
for not holding them closer
than I should have
like all the Greek mothers before me.
I know I speak too much of this and that
and I probably bore you
and it’s so easy to move onto the next poet
who rhymes and meets your IQ requirement
but I left my soul at the beach again,
death recited lines
lit a candle for the dead again
prayed for other’s lives.
My third eye aches
wishes to go blind,
one disappointment after another
another brain cancer tumor
and all the memories flood back
holding everyone else up
with courage I never even thought I had.
I come from places I’ve never been to
and people I’ll never meet.
I want more of what you have.