sanama

why do I feel like I 

owe you something, while you look at me or

you look past me like searching for a joy lost in the past, when you

were too busy collecting the world, 

like one could suspend all those drives inside of a snow globe ball

––

I’m clocked in, you enter the room, I

look at you for too long, I waste your time, I think of

poetry and how most of it is not worth your castle, I think of you

never being able to have poetry for yourself

––

the vision of your castle burning down with all your possessions, how it

wouldn’t even matter to you, how without a blink of an eye

you could hoard a new collection, how

after a while you would become forgetful towards the gone showcase, since

you never came close to it and none of it ever touched you

––

how the envy of others touches you

––

I feel like I need to protect poetry from you

most of it is worth too much

to be wasted in this linear duration, where you own me

––

inside of these frames, the poetic turns into labor 

you’ve hired machines that do the zen gardening for you

machines that sacrifice their backs, legs, hands and their time

for you to come by and draw lines against the patterns

––

I keep my thoughts short in order to contribute 

as little as possible to your values,

attempting to balance myself in your territory, resisting

the urge for destruction, acting off-beat, keeping in the way of others

to remain contemptible under your eyes, 

to avoid agitating your desires, ending up frozen in the hall of chivalry.