Recycling...

There are nights when
I forget winter
and when
my dreams feel more
and more
like an addition
to reality
than the daytime wake.

There are always
more alsos.

I find daily meaning
but I cannot
find a whole
in which
to add myself.

I cannot add
the shards of the universe
I have managed to gather
in my apron pocket.

I cannot find neither
words
nor
comprehension
of pre-existing
thoughts.

It is all recycled.
It is someone else's trash.

I refuse to get trapped
in the cycle
of believing my thoughts
are my own.

For if they were my own,
I would feel as though
they had more worth
than the ones I have do.

In fact, I refuse.
And refuse.
Yet, refuse again
to be anything
stronger
anything
larger
anything
subsequent.

I refuse
to find myself
among the others
refusing
to find themselves
because we would all
just find the same.