Is to learn about the soul
Or the dirt at which feet touch
Down and grasp at pebbles, particles,
Trash, and breathe out the smell of poison
As it spreads from the diaphragm
To every finger tip of a tree.
Chess, checkers
Makes me vomit
Like when a drummer plays without
The passion of a thousand sons
Born of narcissistic parents,
Alcoholics, cops, colonizers,
Crippling anxiety asking why try
When you’ll always disappoint your ancestors,
Not just the living, not just me.
Wherever you look
Is someone looking right back
At all that you aren’t, and will never be.
This is what it feels like
To be lost and never alone
Regardless of what they say
In the tabloids.