Something Profound and Pointless

I wanted to write something profound
something that made philosophers
feel like they were at the dentist’s
and normal people feel like 
they were in the Sistine.

Is that the right word?

I wanted to write something meaningful
And I could do that?
And what would that mean? 

But I sit here and stand here and sleep here, 
and I’ll die here still and until these words hold no meaning:
I thought as if with thoughts, significance could fester,
some thing would grow like a wilt flower through sidewalk.

And what did I really expect?

They won’t get better like wine
Nor did I dig them from the depths of my soul,
from buried treasure of beautiful trauma;
these words don’t pull at my heart;
their meaning is sand in a strainer.

And isn’t this nice?

If I strain enough I may hear
just an utterance of what
the hell I am talking about.

And isn’t that pointless?
And isn’t this expected?

Instead of beauty or life or tragic loss,
I now write about complete and utter un-inspiration;
it is as if it is all I can do.
it is as my fingers are stone and honey
until I am transcribing my complete inability:

And doesn’t that require an ability?
And isn’t that pointless?

I wanted to write something grounded,
enough so that I could say
my head is in the clouds
and my feet are cinder blocks
and I’m stretching, but 
I’m five foot three and 
made of taffy.

And isn’t that an exaggeration?

I just wanted to write something interesting
not just thought provoking
emotional contusion,
a cacophony of endless existence,
something more interesting than my life
something more interesting than my view.

And what is a view of the suburbs?

Behind so many slightly distorted windows,
one glance will convince you the sky looks like milk.
It isn’t worth it to open your eyes
just to see things you’ve already seen,
people you’ve already memorized
words you’ve already spoken.

And I’ve spoken a lot, haven’t I?

how are you?
            fine. good. 

There is no point to conversation if this is how it should go;
Why should I privy my ears to that?
and why should I want to write: that?

Why would people want to read that?

I wanted to write something personal;
something like:

I have anxiety; this is scary
I am gay; this is scary
I am terrified of; this. is scary.

And isn’t this too honest?
I am indecisive and this makes me wary.

Is this how vulnerability is supposed to feel?
I don’t like it. This is scary.

I need affirmation, tell me this is scary.
This is scary, isn’t this scary?

I’m afraid of drowning,
but I’m wading through
these words, insecurities for who?

This is for who?

I had nightmares of
being stuck in a car and
not knowing how to drive,
though I’m white-knuckling this
steering-wheel,
I’m afraid to die.

Collisions are scary, right?

I’m afraid I have an overwhelming
need to clarify myself: 
the window washer,
a stone polisher,
a hopeless romantic

Is that clear?

I’m afraid of these mistakes
and of being not perfect;
Is this semicolon out of place?    
Is this at all worth it?

I’m afraid of being seen,
so I’ll hide with punctuation.
Is; this; good; enough?

         Assure me.

I have anxiety and this is scary.

Isn’t it?

I wanted to write something personal;
something like how I question then delete every word,
and that this may be helpful if anything but
blank sheet and empty feelings filled their space;

This is- Is this-

It is as if the backspace is my best friend
and we tap tap chitter chatter all the time.

I wanted to write better;
but I find that the more I 
write, these words are
getting worse.

Aren’t they?
        tap. tap.

I wanted to write more subtly;
but I find that the more I 
write, as a pencil snaps 
getting sharpened,
these words are 
getting dull

Aren’t they?    
        tap. tap.

I wanted to write!
But these letters
are confusing so
I’ll put them together 
in a blender and 
then will they make 
any sense?

They’re senseless, aren’t they?
        tap. tap.

I wanted to write;
I’m afraid I can’t write.
Can I write?
Please, Can I write?
but I just
tap. tap. and---tap.