a poem for my anxiety
sometimes i write a poem to greet the day
to give thanks for this absurdly weird earth
where i have my origins
along with fossils and gold
osama bin laden and donald trump
we all came up from this strange, old place
a big bang once billions of years ago
and for some reason we're all here now
along with kraft macaroni and cheese
chinchillas and diamonds
all from the same stuff
called carbon
who knows why
so men make wars
and kill women for fun
come up with scientific theories
something an experiment
can prove right multiple times
i feel like van gogh again
like i did when i was sixteen
the world seems too big to tackle
i want to cut off an ear
and paint pictures instead
often i feel like a child
reading a richard scarry book
what do people do all day?
i wonder aloud when 2 o'clock comes
something seizes me then
at that point in the afternoon
a certain sadness
that isn't fixed by looking out the window
what do people do all day?
what are jobs?
my dad said yesterday
on the phone:
some people don't even know
what they want,
at least you have that figured out
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