I’m in a place of complacency.
The hotel of my mind reads “vacancy.”
The words of my mouth leave wastefully,
They have no direction, stuck in vagrancy.
I sat in my office for an hour today,
Asking, what will my poems say?
I sat there, with no thought to prey.
There was nothing I cared to convey.
I’ve set a standard already.
Two weeks, of going steady.
These last two days, unsteady.
No content worth a make-ready.
So I will make a sonnet, not of love,
And with no resolution.
With fifteen lines.
Primitive Poetry 