I sit on bread crumbs, more often than not
my boss's boyfriend is a hyperrealist
battling in futility, he chooses art
as if it was one or the other.
i am so restless and yet
i refuse to move
not one step in any direction i don't feel the need
to incline towards
i am standing still so you can show me where
you want me to be
its impossible to come to terms
with your own limitations.
its the only thing possible
especially with your back to cool wood floors in a
12 month lease of a bedroom.
and its too cold to crack a window
so you smoke cigarettes into your 2 inch closet
and keep a 99 cent Glade air freshener at hand
and deny deny deny.
gravity is strange because
although ashes fall, smoke rises
so its also a real fun way to work out
some hand, eye, face, coordination.
the surgeon general doesn't know about that one.
so this is when
I would promise to eat more vegetables
to feel less sad
to wake up at 8:30 tomorrow
or atleast that 2:30 class. for sure.
This is actually what I was looking for today. Usually I wake up and try to think of a few ways to get around doing things. I enjoy the cold, brisk feeling of wooden floors blessed with morning weather. It's refreshingly obscene. I like this one. Reminds me of my high school days with "what's her face''.
I'm basically commenting to say your description is wrong on all accounts -- except the 'best I can do some days' bit, because I can't really say much about that, only that if that is indeed true -- I'm going to have to around to your page.
This is bare bones stuff. Poetry doesn't have to be fluff, or not pretty things said in pretty ways...literature dropped that sentiment long ago.
I, as well, like the first stanza, up to "as if it was one or the other."
Then, you write a few lines that have some good points, but aren't said in a poetic way and would be better presented as prose.
But I also like,
"and deny deny deny.
gravity is strange because
Although ashes fall, smoke rises."
Two things I have seen here; one is that this could be written as a small story. The other is that I find this a poem about something and nothing at the same time. I have the feeling that you are driving towards something specific, but you leave a lot to the imagination. In a way, this is good, but it can also come across as undeveloped themes strung together. It reads something like thoughts, coming across one at a time; in a stream though unrelated.
Do work on this, though. I love the idea of the bread crumbs, the hard, cold wood floors, the cramped closet, and the smoke. These are all uncomfortable things that turn the thoughts to bodily things when you are trying to think about something else. Perhaps you could develop this in that direction.
And try not to be so critical of yourself. Really, there is some good material here that only needs developing.