Sweet Nothings

The words inked to collect my mind
Never carry the depth of their intent,
But rather stumble and stray
To utter imperfection.

Save for a moments grace,
This has been the plague in my
Attempts at scribed creativity:
A chronic, often terminal, curse.
Beauty, vision, and wit seem
Only to spark fires of hellish demise
And ne'er the candle of satisfaction.

Returning to my usual writing spot here
And taking a long look around me
At the flooded water line,
The busy street running parallel just beyond 
The planted trees that grant me shade,
And the concrete sidewalks that divide sections of plastic-like
	Grass,
I come across two realizations.
First, that I am heavily over stimulated
And care pathetically too much about word choice and
Structure.

Secondly, that I feel strangely like Emerson.
Living in the middle of nowhere,
Cut off from social interaction
And the life and luxuries known before.
Now this may be a gross stretch because:
	A) I actually know very little about Emerson and his experience.
	B) I live in a huge city.

I live in the middle of a concrete sea,
Where the only refuge for nature
Is in sectioned off illusions of beauty.
Trees are cut down in mass quantities
Only to have new ones planted
In erratic placement- like polka dots
On a dirt-green fabric.
They are planted for enjoyment and luxury.
Pounding of hammers, birds, wind and cars.
But so resigned am I, that all I hear 
Is the occasional text from old friends.
	“I need some stability.”
	“You don’t have to tell me that… I know. We all need stability.”

I watch the cars pass left and right in the distance.
It never stops.
It’s strange to think that every car is a person,
And that person has an entire life.
White Saturn. Red pick-up truck. Gold Honda.
Three different humans with three different stories,
Each one with infinite possibilities.

Stranger yet, I feel like I have none.

Humanity’s obsession with learning and curiosity
Has brought us an awkward desired despair.
Ignorance is bliss, but ignored curiosity is torment.
I pull hard on another cigarette, depleting paper
And perpetuating the fire. Is that the definition
Of being human these days?

Words are troublesome things.
They carry more than sounds or space.
They carry meaning, action, emotion, observation,
And endless implications.
But who thought they could mean nothing?