please forgive me

why are things this way?
in all this excess I can't access
to feel
real
on the eve of your twelfth year
which
unbeknownst to we
you've worked half of it for me
to give all I have and can't feel
because it's all you can do
to continue to breathe and feed
your six-month-old beautiful hope
from a drunkards seed

now thinning now crying
now I discontentedly whine
bored with my pillows and walls
the earnings of my success
are a hate crime
rightful by law
so how is that my call?

How many lives make up my aesthetic numb ignorance?
what good is this and that and those
over there and these I can't see
are the wall paper and seat
where I sit and don't know exist
I'll choose what will be
and breathe
in my little reality
the best I can do is drink coffee and wine
while I contemplate my life's woes and tragedies
failing to pinpoint a time when I was sure of anything
or what I am breathing

the malfunctioning AC
has train wrecked my dreaming
and awoken me enough to glimpse
the life you've lived at the expense
of my material cinema sleep
is in that moment more real
than wherever I've been can ever be

and In my understanding I am too ashamed to weep
or ask forgive me
considering the easy justice of suicidal sleep
feeling the weighty judgment of naive privilege
in the moment I think I wouldn't wish this luxury on anyone
and ponder a "vow of poverty"
now this one thing I know
that in your pain-- poetically by my hand--
you and your family
are happier than I will ever be.

now leave me be.