I am not a good poet

my suffering is not beautiful
my victories are few and infrequently worth describing
by and large my broken mind produces only
white noise however deafening and my
words are flat
my pain is not unique
it is routine and my dreams are small
the aching void of my nightmare is well-
lighted and absent of obstacle
tiled endlessly off-white and distances
demarcated with pocket litter cast off by
other pedestrian passers-by
built section by modular section in factories
trucked across the graying interstate
placed by a child’s toy in my diorama world
the sun a flashlight god shakes when it
flickers and the day starts when the
stars die
distance interdicts even the furious light of
elemental fusion so what could I hope to
score against it
I rage against the aching void
an awkward biological accident
screaming at the sky

I miss you
I miss you