I'm too tired to ever sleep
so damn hungry I cannot eat
too full of thought to even think
about everything, nothing, and in between.
I'm too acute to be precise
a mind so made up I cannot decide
too obtuse to open wide
to any, none, and every side.
And I yell at god
Is this really heaven I smell?
You think I'd be close after all this walking
Trotting through the gardens of Hell.
And I'm growing down into the soil
with my roots high above my head
hoping nobody sees
how I'll have lived long after my death.