i’m about done with all this
constant need for knowing
incessant dissection of the absurdity
spinning around and through me
elaborated constructs of meaning
in what could very well be meaningless
willful ignorance has its temptations
comforting, the ease of no longer caring
or wanting, seeking out the worry
a life fraught with perpetual motion
the sickness growing from the inside
overwhelming the senses in a complete
eventual system shut down, but the
coffee is still hot, and the sun
continues to shine somewhere, beyond
they tell me, so why my unrelenting
need to convince myself otherwise
The Reluctant Poet 