Isotopes

I feel like time passes me too coldly
That it passes in me
Too
Slowly because everyone’s found a piece
Of inner peace
And my head is still searching
For the way it thinks.

I crave style, riled up over creating something
To exorcise my demons for a while
And I used to feel like light was climbing in,
But the skylight hides the horizon where my ideas
Are running thin.

I thought words would serve me,
But all they’ve done is served me
And I’ve tried to be wise
And I’ve tried to be clever,
Spinning in circles to put myself together,
Yet my isotopes
Aren’t getting better – I’m diffusing.

It’s like I didn’t wish for my fingers
To be filled with mysteries,
That there’s something missing of the universe
Installed in their memories
And if it’s too much to ask for more, I’m sorry,
But I’m all simmered out from writing drafts
So meticulously,
Only to find one breath later, they’re brimming
With hypocrisies.

That it’s not enough
To love
The way my fingers talk,
The way the words write themselves,
Rise up and walk
With verbosity, velocity, a mind for valiant cities...

Except I don’t take the sleep train
When it comes for me
But stay awake, flake over screens
Where stress can
Just
Abate me.

I crave style, riled up over creating
Carbuncles
But the paper folds like poker hands,
Overloads
Folding over
Ten-fold icicles.

So I dedicate this to the days
I wrote my first villanelle...
To ways I'd shaken hands with my writing style,
Knew it all too well.