Inevitably and undeniably

An empty box finds its way atop the Christmas present on my bedroom table

Tidbits of morsels of delight(edness)

(From the children young young children)

Tending to darkness let me free

Let me free tending to darkness

No ultimatum no opposition to this goal of recovery

That there were lesser ideals scarcely falls on deaf ears

Limited in notion, I do my best in any regard

I ate in organic bloom that I did not want less

Shows I am selfish in my own way

Winding down the clock for a specific chunk, not too long,

Of time during which to write this, a poem, about

Possibly nature

Possible consciousness

Possibly the human condition

Not knowing until the end

And possibly even after that

If we accomplished what we set out to do

This ebb and flow of the words finding me

Or not finding me

More often not

And then trying to piece together what ideas are swimming in my mind

To piece them together

Because they are so unclear that God forbid they be presentable at the outset

Fallen on an island

Is the significance of the location any different

Than falling in a forest

Or in the concrete jungle?

These abstract notions of things like Systems, and Infrastructure

So hard to grasp, yet it seems like every teenager is due for a wrestling match (with them)

For some reason we do not give our youth concrete problems to solve

That they could do so much better if they were given so

And that I may still be considered youth

Me, in my thirties, young, seems laughable, having been young my whole life

That now I am older than I have ever been

And that this statement will always be true

You don’t grow young but I feel like we should all try to

But perhaps that is just more arm-flailing

Something I have been fond of against my will as of late

To spit in the spittoon and not hear the resonance

Because the money doesn’t want me

And the money doesn’t want my skills

And the money doesn’t want my soul

Or maybe I should feel lucky

That the wolves are not gnawing at my bones

But they do! And do they not?

This nagging nagging from nowhere to make money, produce, labor, toil

Toil toil toil

I don’t want to work in a lab

That’s the be all end of it

And I’m putting my foot down

I’m not getting a job in science

(Unless it’s really in writing, who cares what it’s about)

I want to be employed in the arts, in the creation

The industry name: Creation

Wouldn’t it sell better then?

But to rambling I seem to have set myself

And to no productivity it seems to come of it

As for grammar, I have had a dearth of it in the late

And I don’t know where to go for addendums

Your heart I wish to grab

It’s how I shake hands

But so many recoil at the sight of me

So maybe we just read each other’s words for now