i am no good at this

i am no good at this

not the making of it
not the thinking of it
nor even the being of it

life is not a skill i possess
in any great abundance
finding it utterly daunting

discouraging how easily
i stray from the simplest
of tasks in their doing

i meander through words
sounds books banks
of such miniscule complicity

i drown in the details of
my wearisome masturbatory
pedantic self-flagellation

i stare at innumerable trees
that do not nearly constitute
the forest i am meant to see

i reach out to touch a gentle fawn
and instead crush my hand
against a cement block

life is not for the taking
it is not to be understood
in gregarious grins and guffaws

life resides in opaque shadows
that seem always to hover
just beyond my reach