Unkempt Poetry

2-7-16

I am
folding
holding
molding
all of my
life around me
into
perfect little pockets
that are an attempt
to organize
my surroundings

in such a
flurry
hurry
worry
about these
little details
of material goods

and I am
painfully aware
that
each
organizing
action
brings me
no closer
to
being able to breath.

Deep in my body,
without my consent,
tiny
hemoglobin molecules
fold,
untold
and
manage to hold,
repeating themselves
in an effort
to keep fresh blood
and therefor
down the line
fresh oxygen
in my body.

So why
even though I
fold my life
and
it fixes nothing
and
my life still folds away
still
in the grand scheme of things
keeping me the same,
without what feels like no new oxygen, 
fixing nothing.