Poetry
9/17/22
He forgets himself
when he eats
sleeps
when he cannot consume
and wakes
only to feast anew
He lives
in a museum of past purchases
thinks
in lost receipts
and recites
more than he speaks
His mind
a vessel not his own
is a storeroom
for things which have never lived
objects he animates through memory
The feelings of the dead
euphoric to contemplate
are almost invigorating
like a warm wind
blowing through a hollow tree
giving it breath
with which to whistle
2/25/2020
I've learned to pity
all those I've come to hate.
And so,
I must be careful not to hate myself,
As it too only leads to self-pity
