i haven’t written a poem since my sons were born
automatic resentments creep up like vines
and all i can note are specific lies
too much really for most i suppose
like dawns and sunsets through the same cracked window
haven’t written a poem since lives have happened
too busy, i think, to reach for an ego’s lines
and all i can mourn are these dying days
as fresh faced emotions take over my sight
vicarious-living is a fucked up excuse
for brining people into this world