WHAT IT FEELS LIKE

these days the suffering surrounds us
like a biker gang, cloudy thoughts
hanging like exhaust over the roar
of our pain. punches rain down

from toothless fools, fueled
by our actual sins, yet caught up in the false
violence that arises from the fear
of loss, an accumulation of tragedy

and the mounting burdens
of old age and empathy.

LESS

 

don’t apologize

for silence, that blank non-

space where the brain takes

a break to circumnavigate

the detritus of so much

stimulus. and don't say sorry

for being alone sometimes.

we go away to get 

sane again. solitude and silence

save us, the absence of pain

in the form of people and ideas,

a place full of less
where we can really listen

to all of the nothingness.