When I used to think

it would be nice to be an ant,

to be able to wake up every morning

when the sunlight

warmed up my anthill

and meet the day with open feelers,

the sun drawing dew from the grass

up over my shoulders and into the sky,

my life seemed like a bottomless tunnel

I could always rewind deeper into,

and the melodrama I tried not to be

crawling around town

and waving my head around

trying to get reception

for how to save the world channel,

came in clear as day

at the same time the spot I made,

being a microcosm of that world,

disappeared back into that feeling.

I was always trying to leave myself,

in hopes of finding a better me,

unaware of the fact

that each time I thought I had,

I had turned myself around, mid thought

and sort of zip-corded back

into the me I’d already become,

vanishing into the moment I am,

whose always just beginning to dig

out of sight, in the blind spot,

my earthly burden,

to shoulder a responsibility

for making people feel

the insides of their memories,

until they began to think themselves

more hospitable,

and I think

this is probably because it’s always been

my first priority

to make myself feel better,

out of some perverted sense of justice

for all the love and happiness

I thought was burglarized

and carried out of me.

But a person has to feel

a sense of duty in their life,

and mine is knowing

I can always dig down inside


to feel like I am helping a stranger see

what’s in the dark more clearly,

tunneling into the heart of my me

with moonlight.

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