Hanging in Poetry is the Window to the Soul...

I write thousands of lines about you in my mind, spinning them backwards and forwards with little pleasure. It’s an obsession. An outlet. It is simple release.

I need it.

I’m fine.

Except when I’m not.

I’m so not. Every single day.

I’m hanging on barely both literally and figuratively, and I think it’s only a matter of time. Until mine runs out. Runs empty. Is bled fully dry.

I am a luxury of absence.

I am a furious failure of potential unrealized.

I am without question the very worst of the best of love.

And I am empty.

Hanging on ever clearly but barely.

It’s late at night.

I bet you would not choose me.

You would not choose me.

You do not.

Goodnight.

March 11, 2020