Fiction (Draft 1)

Fiction (Draft 1)

Oh I hate I’m so much fiction, and
I’m thinking I should die

I don’t really have a book worth anything,
don’t really have a life, can’t sing well

can’t write for me, for you.

Oh why can’t the world
look at my word —

sometimes when I dream
it seems like

I am open, and
there is still an embrace, but

I can’t
and I’m so sad.

I think when I drown
it will be good, because

doesn’t want me to surf.

I have no idea
about the wave —
such things are mysteries.

There is an ocean, and
and I love the sound
out my window
every morning when
I hear both crickets,
the surf, and softly you, and then

I wonder why I can’t
write your song.

Maybe it’s because
I’m dead.

I can’t do this
can’t even write
my obituary, because
it’s too damn formal, and
requires compliments, and

in my life reviews, I am sorry
about every day, and every
mistake, but I know you

have never been one, and
I thank you.

— Douglas Gilbert