Monthly Archives: September 2018

Excuses.

I have to treat this as a personal diary.
I suppose it is really.
I’m trying to write poetry.

Most of what I put down feels artificial.
Like a show that echoes.
See that’s what I mean.

That line.
Like a show that echoes.
I knew exactly what I was doing there.

Every cliche that comes out of me I’ve already seen.

I know how to solve this problem.
I have to go out and live.

I have to go and fall in love again.
I don’t want to.

I would rather write poorly.
and have two stupid tattoos.
that say much with few words.

that’s what it means. the left one. say much with few words. I’ve been treating this as a poem even still. even up until now. but this isn’t a poem. these are just a few words. and I’m trying not to be artistic, or follow any rules. this is not a poem¬†or a book.

this is acceptance. I can’t find the courage to write in spite of me.

Matte.

Poetry fails this despair.
This emptiness.

I would rather not watch the roads less traveled.
Shackled to me digitally.

There is no Christmas morning Scrooge.
The regret you slept will stay with you.

But I would rather rattle my sins,
than live another day with them.

When no one is near,
and no one can hear,
I scream.

And a day passes.

When no one is near.
and no one can hear.
I scream.

And a year passes.

When no one is near.
and no one can hear.
I scream.

and I wonder when it will end.
Before it begins again.