To sit in the heat and think is to die  

What living is there without movement  

But who am I to say I write like a poet  

But speak like a hypocrite  

Hoping my words have meaning  

Without having to give them any  

I sit in the heat and think and dream  

Of action and death  

Until the vultures descend  

With truth or lies  

It does not matter  

Because they pick away at my false actions  

With good intentions or bad  

It does not matter  

Because I am inevitably destroyed by myself  

And the words I paraded  

Around the page  

With no intention to tell a story  

But with the intention to be loved  

not for truth or personhood  

but or the simple fact that  

I crave affection  

And that I am lonely  

And when the vultures descend  

I welcome their barbs and pecks  

Because it is attention  

Despite how it tears me apart  

Despite how it does not last  

Despite how it will leave me lonely again  

When all is done  

Can’t you see me  

Can’t you hear me  

As I sit in the heat to think and die  

As I write like a writer  

And Speak like a speaker  

And croak out words  

In garbled blood-filled tongues  

Dark and mysterious  

Promising a story  

Promising meaning  

Making you listen and moan and suffer  

No pleasure derived  

Just a pain in your heart  

As you wait for a punchline 

That will never come  

And I trap you in a sense of inaction  

As you now sit in the sun to think and die  

All the while  

Cicadas scream in the background