Poetry?? Well, an unedited, inept version of such anyway...

Feelin' jittery and out of sorts.

Some days you can't ignore the things you normally ignore.

Yet there's no optimism in the recognition
that this could lead to something I need
if only I could find the path or do the math.

Instead just a sense of usual recompense,
this too shall pass without leaving a mark
and there's no "at last I'm out of the dark."

Just descent into the same, again and again.

Life gives us so many chances
if we can only see them.
But sight is meaningless without action.
Just continual, disappointing redactions
of the openings in the veil.
Ignore it and return to blindness
because it's steady and easy, really a kindness.

I can make a choice to jump between the curtains
where nothing is certain,
but I can't envision what's beyond
because it's not there yet.
Without faith in my ability to create,
I'm left with the need to obviate,
not to deviate.
Self-hate is too strong a word,
but it does get referred
to in the thoughts that I hold.
This inability to be bold is infuriating,
had I the passion to be so angry.
Instead left with a dull and vague despair,
hardly deserving of the name.

Ennui is so French and so literary
Angst is too throat curdlingly German
and contains an anger that makes me tired.
Anxiety is just a piece, not really the point.
So search eternally for the words
rather than the means, the usual,
while time continues passing and
stasis remains the rule.

Thinking somehow poetry can unlock
the crock that is nothing profound,
only the immature ramblings
of derivative lambling.
Somehow tortured rhymes can take the joke,
twist the yoke, invoke the Loki that can burst free
and transform the staid and passionless
into new life and not too scary madness.
As if.

We are limited by who we are,
not because genes are concrete,
but because our minds are replete
with fears of self deceit.