This year is for sleeping more.
This year is for eating better.
This year is for exercise.
This year is the year when demons abdicate the throne in my skull.
This year is for skillful exegesis of my insides following their meticulous expulsion;
no more spilling of guts.
This year is for doctors’ visits and tough phone calls to insurance representatives.
This year is for a page a day, a poem a day, a journal entry a day.
It’s all about consistency.
I’m going to stay up ’til 4 AM some nights.
I’m going to eat Burger King or McDonald’s at some point.
I’ll probably give up on any half-assed exercise regimen after a week or two.
The demons will always dance around my throne.
My insides will jump outside however they damn well please.
I don’t actually need to call any insurance people, but I will talk with a doctor.
Ink in all its forms reigns supreme.
I could never slip up and slop the ink.
More precious than gold, more telling than mold,
I’ll fold a million phrases into blazing loquacious lotuses
and listen for their stories.
The pen, it cuts the void.
The pen abuts the void.
The pen, bleeding, births the void and throws light to summon leering shadows.
The child wants playmates,
and a ruler cannot deny the abyssal beating heart of their people.
Their histories are made in ink.