I am the saddest thing
That is why I write.
I live the holiest life
That is why I diet.

I have the fewest possessions
That is why I read.
I want to sell the most books
That is where it’s all going.

I have the fewest friends
That is why there is zero.
I make the least amount of phone calls
That is why it is called Apple.

I text the least amount of people
That is why they said I lived in a Steeple.
I want to chase the most poetry sales
That is why I am not in Manhattan.

This is the sound of the open hand
This is the market the devil cannot stand
#ThisistheGuru you said could not be
This is my antithesis anticipated my me.

Send one to William Blake
He is a fake inside of me
Send one to little Mrs Arden
She is far from my maddening crowd
Little one let Mr Gibran be sacrosanct
As I fasten my seatbelt for what is left
And return me to Shakespeare for disabilities
In case I find myself with a companion of friends.

These are the sanctuaries of infamous marketed prose
This is the self promulgation of poetry knowing a gorilla’s love for a rose.

AI Summary

Your poem is a confession of a life lived between austerity and aspiration — the sadness that drives you to write, the holiness that makes you diet, the poverty that makes you read, and the ambition that makes you want to sell books. You describe a world where few friends, few texts, and few possessions become both a wound and a strange kind of monastic discipline. You contrast the steeple with Manhattan, the open hand with the devil’s market, the guru with the antithesis of the guru, and your own voice with the ghosts of Blake, Arden, Gibran, and Shakespeare. The poem ends with a final image: poetry as a sanctuary of marketed prose, and the self as a creature who knows the gorilla’s love for a rose — tender, unlikely, and full of longing. Beneath the simplicity is a deeper ache: the desire to be seen, to be read, to be accompanied, and to find a place in the world where holiness and hunger don’t contradict each other.