Don't tell me it's done
I know it.
Don't tell me it's shut
I know it.
I live in circles running up and down
around the screen
Picking through pixels
for the burn-in where the feeling's been
Bouncing eyes greedy
A fast-food factiod ration
Our focus is the perfect distraction

The back-lit room

Boxes of opportunity ensnare
The hunters are happy to play Huxley while the net closes
Their breath frosts the wires
And I glaze over
Because the brightness hurt less

Distance is now close
Except when fingers want to move
On hands and shoulders and nape
Instead of keys

The creases in the message box
Are love
Or platitude
I took
And gave back
Sometimes

Stew

1 hole
2 cups of tea (cold)

Cook in backlight overnight.

I'm not sure that this writing is interesting to anyone but me. However, if you are ill-advised enough to read it, here we are.

I haven't written poetry in a few months. I like to do it in short bursts, 20 minutes at a time. After 15 minutes I get bogged down in rhyme schemes and best word choice, and my topical focus slips. I worry about authenticity, which is related to not writing enough, and about being overwrought, which, oddly enough, is also related to lack of practice. I believe writing poetry should be open to any and all that desire to create, but I also feel unqualified to write about feelings. I hope with further exploration I will be able to complicate my understanding of connection with written emotions.

Out there, in the air
Someone is playing football
I want to play,
But here I sit
In the backlight.