i cannot live nonsensically, though sure attempt
to hollow out my trunk and make room for fresh sap
with every try driving myself into incompetence
a nail into a wound; i read the poets of great skill
appreciate their strings of metaphors, like dna
that codes their genealogies and scholarly degrees
but shades of words don't float at leisure in my head
my sentences are bluest collar workers; why must i
give up on my meaning? they suggest their ways
are novel, undefined, and crippled is my method
this constant striving after knowledge; yet,
for the first time in my life, i am learning not to listen
