I don’t want to think.

No one does, really.


Nobody wants to think

about all the evil in the world,

because then we would

feel obligated to do something about it,

and isn’t it so much easier

just to turn your head and look away?


I want words to flow from me

like blood from a fresh wound,

and fill white pages with -

faux confidence and opinionated liberation.


Maybe I’m not meant to be a writer,

or maybe I’m just distracted.

Then again, maybe that is exactly what writing really is.

Finding your distractions and writing them down,

so they become your focus.


A bit ridiculous,

but I am moved to believe that it is the truth.

But then if distractions become your focus,

then you have no distractions.

Being focused distracts us from thinking.


This poem is about: 
Our world
Poetry Terms Demonstrated: 


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