I'm All Out of Ideas

what a terrible way to feel
overwhelmed and over it
like I don't want to write anymore
like maybe a word, this hour, or this minute
is spent
without a summit

my journal is a progression of poems
most as forgettable as the day that produced them
as vague as the answer of anywhere
but I study each of them carefully
and weigh them on a scale
of halfway or almost there

this is what god must feel like
overwhelmed and over it
like I don't want to be responsible for this
like maybe there is no truth
because you ignore the goodness
and you think it has nothing to do with you

my old journals sing songs
of young girls with old thoughts
and I remember that ol' girl and them young thoughts
and I want to be her, hold her
whisper
it will all be okay