every time i read poetry
by people that graduated from a school
i realize how cruel
my brain must be
to make me want
to continue writing

i know i know
it's just a thing
i do when i'm down and/or tired
so no need to announce
that i at once must retire
into the darkest corner
of the already dimly lit room
every time i encounter
self-doubt, shame, and/or gloom

still, i wish
i could make less sense
thereby creating a sense of wonder
with language roaring (like nineteenth century thunder)
describing, still, the same old shit