Confessional poet

Confessional poet, unable to write any of those things without a counterweight. Writer of Ideas with tenure, beyond the insatiable dysfunction. Weary of the large and formidable vastness above the microcosm crevasse. A moment of rest at home with familiar sounds. Crackle of the metal stove top in a convenient kitchen. Jasmin tea near the sink. In my head, forever loud, diluted deliberations i neglect to share. A deafening percolation of insights and observations. Or perhaps, the onslaught of tinnitus and its maddening hold. Perplexed, immobile and infused by the proper dose of fatigue. The purpose is to achieve what none around could care less for. A lofty objective, to instill a new breed of fantastic loss of hope. Where convenience will confirm the impregnable. I won’t debate with your insecurities. Neither will i climb to the height of your expectations. Coercive love will dry up hope, like the creek at the end of a parched summer day. Attachment is not constructive.