Failure to Follow Form

 Failure to Follow Form

I have no idea what I am doing. That is not just hyperbole where I go on and on about philosophical nothingness, about not understanding what it is that I am doing. I am trying to write a poem that doesn’t fall into a gaping void of uncertainty and depression, and nothing is coming up. It is as if life itself is starting to forget how to follow its own rules. Life has forgotten it is supposed to follow up and down patterns, as if lyrically crafted by someone much older than I. The same way that no amount of clapping will help me find the syllables, I can’t find anything that doesn’t make me sound like a hopeless ingrate. Its rhythm is all skewed, like my attempts at Shakespeare's curse to man. In six months, we have had to endure six ends of life without a single new baby, a single good moment. Memento Mori is overwhelmingly taught while we struggle to find the Vivere. The end of my sestinas are death, death, death, death, death, and death. I might be better off trying to write a haiku.

I could write stuff like.

Snow will fall on Mount Fuji.

But that wouldn’t fit.