My shoulder hurts. I have woken up 

The clock reads 12:15. 

For a moment, I thought it meant PM

I realize I fell asleep at 6. 


I turn on a show, it makes no sense

Every other person is an alcoholic or a pervert

It’s awful, the book is has less of this

But to see the faces on the screen nearly makes it okay. 


I am not a visual person.

I need sound, the easiest flow of passion.

I stuff my headphones 

Into my closet, so I don’t have to hear.


They dance around on screen, immoral and monologuing, but the sound is in my closet. Am I meant to feel something? 


I write poetry at 1:31 AM. I fought 

With my mother last evening.

The thought turns my stomach and makes me sick 

I am languishing; why


I gaze around my empire of manifest 

And wish for something spiritual.


This poem is about: 
My family
My community
My country
Our world


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