Member Poem

I bury myself in to do’s.
To watch’s,
To see’s,
To write’s,
Layers of thick brown dirt pile to-gather
The remnants of future glass
No longer intact

I am the home run.
But in a present that does not extend past
And eats away at the ten,
When I am already falling of the one
A gift that stops giving.
Until my to do’s topple towards my
To done’s.

I will be twenty
And all the tens after,
And in their direction I face
But no steps do I place
To-ward my content,
I look back and already
Through shower curtains I see
I thought this was forty
Not me?

We thought this was later.
With lights pouring from our faces
A crustacean of platelets
Fogging dreams and paces
And paces and paces,
Because of what you cater
And you’ve allowed yourself to give
To allow us no greater.

But despondent I’ll stay
In constant dismay.
Inconstant with future
respondent to your way.
And pause.
And play,
Without any meaning of the word
And any need to be heard
To do self help and hangman
Just like those bluebirds.