I don't want to learn to code

I want to be a poet

we can camp just off the road

no one will ever know it

oh wait I meant to turn this off

this constant faucet of my thoughts t

hey become my credo

I know poets make no money

but there's a rhythm to it

and everybody thinks that's funny

but they don't listen to it

I want my words to travel far

live like the locals

live live inside my credo

who knows, who says

who can catalogue it all

who looks, what do they find

in the boughs of hallelujah

I am the one remaining soldier

of a war that gets stupider as it gets older

I wish I could crawl out of it

I ask for laughing gas they tell me they're all out of it

maybe I can be a chaplain

bearing witness to all the monumental things that happen

strange how thoughts like these can rattle your teeth

and ring your head like a sentimental Christmas wreath

and if you're scared, just know that I'm scared too

and if you're proud, just think how proud I am of you we are happy in the wilderness

they have lenses that can filter this

there are some things that I regret

and some things that I honestly forget

we should name this war before it ends

otherwise it feels like we're living in someone's make-pretend

and if you're wounded I'll tear my shirt

make a tourniquet for where you hurt

I love your eyes in the symphonic sun

maybe there's a war poets have already won

who knows, who says

who can catalogue it all

who looks, what do they find

in the boughs of hallelujah