Maybe I Could Sell My Poems.

I tumble tirelessly to
the terrestrial terrain
spilled out and
stretched thin and tinier
by the moment.

The wheels are whirring
at lighting speed and screaming
loud
louder
loudest
until nothing remains
but ruins of reminiscences.

For six whole months
its been this way--
the days that stay and stray
but never change or
give way to anything easier.

My sticking point
is being challenged.
My fierce independence and my
indignant need to inch away
in subtle yet profound instances--
to prove my identity
and in return free myself
from that which I have no real
desire to be freed.

Except in this moment.

When the bank account is bone dry
and I remember the times when I
only had to support me
and no one else
and how that was easy
and uncomplicated

and lonely.