sat

sat alone on the first day
was the only one
everyone watched
fingers tingled
head heavy and pounding

sat alone on the first day
wasnt the only one
watched everyone
hands sweaty
head heavy in thought

sat alone for many days
with new friends
that did not know
or understand
or care

sat alone for many days
with old friends
that knew
and understood
and cared

sat alone for many years
with no one
with pen and paper
eyeglasses
pouring it into the blank

sat alone for many years
with myself
with my drawings
visions
keeping them close to me.

j-

I don’t really know what it means… usually I just sit here and try to let the words come through. Sometimes I tell a story and it’s just random- sometimes I tell a story and the words repeat in some oddly read pattern. I’m not sure if I’m any good at this poetry stuff. People tell me I am, but in my experience something as subjective as poetry can always be considered “good.” Like modern art. A dot on a large white canvas is “genius.” All I see is a lazy artist that can’t finish his artistic obligation.

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