Chauchat When I Was Young I Wanted To Do Great Things
Scattered across this country
Deceased but still here
Moving backwards out of fear
Recessions in the phonograph machine
And they blamed me
They blame it on my apathy
But I try so hard to sound concerned and fake this
awkwardness
Just to appease you, my love
Brutal honesty
Traits of suffering
Emulate the orphan
Whose task is to write
Descriptions of worlds he tried to fit into
Stencil these tears directly beneath my eyes
I want to be pacified
These pillows are anchors and it seems like you’re still
here
But we already went over that
A couple poets are singing as I try to sleep
Forcing couplets from their busted beaks
A coward’s dignity
A closing of closets put my mother through hell
I’m cracking down on contradictions now
