The fool wept as his sorrows
exploded and resonated against the
walls of his tortured mind.
Shaking, staring, and nervous,
he thinks of his love and
how his heart steals the warmth
from the rest of his body
and leaves him cold and confused.
He says he's in love.
He says he feels calm. He's not.
His mind stays, lying in the bed of anxiety
while his body wanders off in its
pitiful daily routine.
He looks in the mirror and puts on
his glasses ten times over.
He thinks he looks bad.
He wore his good pants yesterday.
He wants to wear them again today
but thinks it will make him unattractive.
He doesn't like to talk about school.
He enjoys his days. He gets inspired,
but that inspiration vaporizes
as soon as he enters his house
of delirium.
He sits down on the couch.
He writes a poem.
He writes this poem.
The more he writes, the
better he feels about himself.