V. H. King's Ink

I feel like I shouldn’t be surprised.
it’s the same shit it’s always been
and always will be. I’ve told myself
for years to fucking get used to it,
and I think I’m doing a better job
of not beating myself up
for hoping
for anything
different.

but I shouldn’t be surprised.
I should never be

surprised that I always come back
to feeling like this. I should never be
surprised that I try and hope
and believe things will change.
I should never be surprised
there will be good moments
and
I will always come back
to this.

that’s what life is, because
God is a fucking
coward.

and three days from now
I might believe in holy things
with purpose, and I also
shouldn’t be surprised.

because that’s what being human is.

the same shit trapped in
rotten hope and amber bubbles
of joy. and that joy is real.
sticky as resin, sweet as honey.

and if I ask myself, what do I even want
out of all this? why say it? why rant
a tirade of a tantrum if I am convinced
of inevitable futility and unfailing beauty
in all things? does it matter? do any
of those answers offer me something
satisfying?

or is this just the other part
of being human? the need
to say
I feel something
—to scream it,

because if it’s going to feel like
it’s ripping you up from the inside
out
you might as well lend your own
voice
to the sound.

I wrote this because I felt
something.
maybe you feel it too.
it’s okay if you don’t—
and the funny thing is, if you
asked either of us to name
the thing we feel, we’d both
shrug
and say we don’t know.

because none of the words for feelings
really mean anything anymore,
but if I write a poem
like this
you’ll know exactly what
I’m talking about.

maybe you’re screaming something else
entirely.
I might not hear you. I can’t promise you
that God will,
either.
but when my bones ache, I will know
it was you.

when my shoulders sink
with the weight of despair
and dignity
and disaster
and daring
and devotion
of every generation,

I will find you in the endlessness.