If there were an ism
or I could find an ist
for myriad frustrations
I’d feel less like shit

It would elevate me
pull me out of funks
that sap my energy
and sully my plans

And I’d take command
craft a sign or march
or volunteer if I could
just get a handle on it

For now, I’m slumped
a rocket stuck in its tube
a man without a chance.
I’ll word my way out of this.

 

Poet’s Notes:

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