Not Quite Set

I wish I could still lie in the lies of funding and foreigners
And would’ve accepted the closed spectrums of materialism and mates
But it was in solipsism that I first found dusted top—calculated crowd—
Distracting me in my symbolic belief of whatever I needed—
Of whatever kept me acadeemed and drunk: I fingered
Feigned and forgot; I stayed at the edge of periodically emptied sets.
And I continue to fine grain them with a thinner and thinner hammer
But a hammer it still be: stop judging me.

I don’t know what to say about it all, let alone myself now:
Could I put my hand on their stomach without anyone flinching?
Could I make it sound like a necessary second bullet?
My heart beats ignorantly, but I feel

Something different, so while I ready my hands
A few more times my
Words might show something more

Only once in a while—certainly not like this—

As I keep readying myself.