It’s like I don’t know myself anymore,
this standing collection of the places I’ve been
and the people I’ve met
that might regret meeting me
or paying to see
these selfish thoughts
and dualistic plots
like self-created knot’s in the midst of knowing.
Earlier I’d cut and pasted
the form of my past
into a more realistic future
and while I shed tears from my shaking face
I found myself between loose moments
that collided with each other and
broke the habits retracting into themselves
like a guarded poet, always there,
but never on time.

About Sean O'Gorman

Spoken Word poet from Ottawa. View all posts by Sean O'Gorman

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