There is no good way to really start a poem
and by far
This is the third time I've tried to find a line to begin this
Which will never be the line that could best cooperate with myself
to get what I want. 

So I could start my push
into talking about several things
Like how literary poetry is so different in nature to slam poetry, and why I think
both are good
But one is fine art, and the other is a diary
and why I wish that there was
at least once
one that could be a beautiful gouache landscape of entries in someone's life that used more word tricks than I have hair.
Because I want to have new bursts of thoughts that someone puts in me
when I can't make my own.
It's so hard to make my own.

I could talk about my mother who
when I was younger
was a demon that ravaged my psychology 
until I was scared not of the boogiemen that I knew for certain hid within the dark.
Because mom was a thing
That could exist in any degree of light.
Could exist at any time.
That had touched me before with a cold unforgiving hand
Or would meakly grapple onto me as a tether in the coldest himalayan climb of her life.

I want to hate her, but instead
instead
there was a tiny crack of sympathy left somewhere in the halls of that house
somewhere that god couldn't see, but it was still my house
I knew my house
And I used it when she'd changed.
I never speak forgivness to my friends when they tell of of a boyfriend
or a mother
or an aunt
or grandparents
or a father
or girlfriend
that uses their words and their hands and their friends and their power like cat o' nine tails.
How though
Do I stand here and speak of freedom and sing songs of independence
when I 
forgave.
 

This is not by most means
particularly unique.
My thoughts are just a manefestation that nearly everyone else has
Like when a child realizes that death is for everyone
or the teenager thinks of the theory that everyone but them isn't real.
Thoughts so
So compact.
So common.
And yet each one is a miracle when I hear about them
a tiny fireworks show of self awareness draped over in black cloth by the monotony of basic human evolution.

This poem will never be much.
Perhaps spoken.
Maybe published
if I get around to it.
But this is once again, like a diary
and not so much fine art.