Writing Through

It’s not pleasant,

where I start.

In fact I don’t want to start

because of the stench

and the rot

and the sameness of words

left to die,

mirrors everywhere

and in them, my heart.

I know everything there is to know

about this room

there are no more secrets

there hasn’t been for some time

years, maybe decades.

And yet, here I sit,

And yet, here I write.

I must not be ready to leave this place

I simply must not be ready to leave.

And yet…

I write.

And so that is ok. It is ok.

Perhaps this time, I find a way through.

I heard the other day that a good poet

doesn’t write to find himself

and as I looked at my fragile image

with so many glued pieces

so many missing pieces

I said no.

For me. I said no.

But then again, I might not be good.

In fact most times I’m not.

I feel like killing

I feel like dying

I feel like screaming

I feel like crying

I can’t stand the world

can’t stomach the mess

can’t bare my soul

so I bear my chest

I feel hopeless

I feel trapped

I feel un glued

I feel attacked

So much rage

and so deeply buried

colors my soul

and all I carry

my passion is gone

like a fucking light out

and it’s not coming back

there’s no fucking doubt

Oh me oh my oh me oh my

Damon Damon – what a silly guy

I can’t, I won’t, I don’t, STOP!

I hate my life – is how I feel.

I hate everything about this fucking wheel.

what’s happened to me

And why can’t I heal?

 

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