I thought I was going to build on the first poem – instead this was produced – perhaps another take?
Is it possible to be jealous of one’s own life?
To step back and realize you’ve been missing out?
Somehow it’s as if I’m like those people who have described
the near death experience floating
the body watching the family cry, “Don’t
Only this time it’s me who is
crying next to me
Lying, and I
watch above, curiously
removed from the whole situation
Yet still tied in like a phantom body part that itches
“I could have sworn it was there”
Is that contentment
Be confused with desolation?
Sometimes the faces look the same
Ever wonder if “The Scream” is not in horror?
there an end
This armor that is speedily texting around me
frowns on me
drowns out me
until the coffin closes
Suppose possibilities lie in restlessness?
The harm of contentment
The charm of contentment
Is a seduction
of the senses
“You are getting very very sleepy”