How much more poetry would I write
if I didn’t spend most of my days hustling
to pay rent?
I don’t know why I am always trying to understand myself
like I’m some kind of puzzle
or story with a twist ending I’m trying to guess before it’s
I just want to know why I
lose myself in whatever I’m doing and forget to eat
wake up at 3:30 in the morning for no reason at all
would rather fiddle with lyrics or paintbrushes than raise a family
feel so lonely so often, when I’m surrounded by love.
I keep trying to change,
trying to find the boundaries everyone else seems to
just know already,
but my kit was short that map.
So I wander, not exactly lost, but definitely off the path.
I wish I could stop trying to understand, and just
let it be, be content that I am that I am.
But I suppose that whatever makes me forget to eat and sleep, and
whatever in me is so lonely
is probably what’s looking for the answer anyway.