Draft of a poem

"he's seen the same things I've seen
and it's certainly made an impression on me."

what edges there are on the human heart,
this victim, this organ, this patriot of human history,
you absorb so many things into a human heart,
your parent's clothing, your friend's sense of style,
your hatred of what money makes you think and say,
you begin to think you are a vessel of divine inspiration
but you simultaneously hate that divine source,
because you just want 1987 back, right before you moved
from that town in Ohio, you had just found out who your friends
were, you learned the art of non-chalance, how to hold on to money,
because you could use it toward a game of miniature golf,
you could save it for an evening having pizza with your friends,
then suddenly, it was up to someone else, something bigger than you,
not you deciding again, time to pick up and go somewhere else,
or maybe you have rediscovered longing for 1991 again,
your grandfather still alive, but slipping away from you.
The human heart staggers in its cage sometimes, but you feel like
you want to get a harness on it, so it doesn't drag you so far
and wide on its wandering, on its sojourn, you want to be able to
squeeze your heart blindly, an drain the blood from it, so you
can fill it when you desire, when you're looking for another chance