i touch myself at night
because i don’t feel as guilty
during the open eyes of the awake.
i’ll concede my improper use of language.
i have no knowledge of what i speak,
nor write, yet i take comfort in
the babble of incoherence.
i guess that my misappropriation of meaning
gains validation in its disjointed being.
it’s easier to spout junk,
than to create.
the garbage i vomit
comforts me more than
the trash i compose.
be it rehearsed or spontaneous,
it comes from the same source.
i should be thankful for both,
at least something is made.
my eloquence runs smooth
like a serrated knife along a fine vein.
the blood spilled
showcases my dexterity.
i indulge in things i do not understand,
but do so out of interest.
my ideals overshadow my talent,
yet i create out of habit.
drawing lines are easier than
those written, but written has more
opportunity displaying intelligence.
everything has an intelligence,
mine just so happens to be below what is
socially respectable for one of creation.
yet, creation is available to those of will.
intelligence is man made,
will is natural.
one can improve one’s aptitude,
but is it mimicry,
or actually understanding?
if i copy, i hope i’m able to
express my understanding.
otherwise my attempt is futile.
if i cannot what i’ve digested,
and create my own understanding,
i’ve not understood anything
but the art of copying.
at least i know how to touch myself.
maybe that’s all i need to feel whole.
or maybe i need an actual hole.