I am made of poetry and anger
I throw away bone and building, 
tear down torn-down feelings
I have no spontaneous overflow of emotion,
 I misremember myself
am I really free to write about absolutely anything?
how can you be so sure? hush mary magdalene
I still want to fall asleep when pen---
hits page and when I admit it, my face is hot.
I think, ‘rhyme page with rage,’ what a word,
freedom. I get cross eyed when I try to sing
I don’t feel grand & poetic today,
I mostly want to cross something off a list.

Unconnected to what’s viable, I think too much.
Here we are, who are you?
I didn’t get my driver’s license until I was
10 things I’ll forget about this year
how much my mood changes in real-time reel-time 
    I am without the semblance of stimulus.

I feel sturdy, fine, even optimistic 
but it has only been
and I guess I’ve been different ever since.