Listening to punk rock,
and reading Sylvia Plath poems
on the back porch,
impatiently waiting for rain.
I don't know what to do.
I want to share myself with you,
but it's not easy, because
you're a lovely pain in my ass.
My recollection seems to not serve me,
quixotic and intoxicated from years
of requisite catastrophes and/or
the weight of the world.
I am here
and I am not going anywhere,
but I am not a ghost,
and I am not heartless.
Built mainly from explosions
and musings that feel like fragments
from an exceptionally perceptive diary,
a gray youth small will have to do.