Dumb.
I’m writing,
just to write.
Dumb, dumb, dumb.
Words like pebbles in a sock,
no purpose, no weight,
just rattling.
I type “the sky is blue”
then backspace it,
because... dumb.
Too dumb.
Not dumb enough?
This isn’t art,
this isn’t voice,
this is just
dumb-filling-a-blank
because the blank won’t blink first.
My fingers go tap tap tap
on dumb dumb dumb ideas
about nothing,
hoping something
accidentally makes sense.
It doesn’t.
Still dumb.
Delightfully, terribly,
dumb.
I sit here, writing.
Dumb dumb dumb.
Not even the fun kind of dumb
with glitter and gum and chaos.
Just regular,
boring,
plain toast dumb.
I write “There are crumbs on the floor.”
Dumb.
I write “I am the floor.”
Dumber.
Now I’m just typing to type,
chasing that tiny thrill
of pretending it means something.
Dumb little lines,
dumb little thoughts
lined up like ducks
with no direction,
just waddling in a circle.
What’s this poem about?
Dumb.
What’s the point?
Also dumb.
Will I stop?
Not yet.
Because somehow,
dumb as this is,
it’s better than the
loud, echoing,
super dumb
blank.