redone..

i tell myself  to write poetry when it hurts

but i have been spun too many times to tell what is real

and the syllables taste strange on my lips, too foreign to meld into art

so i sit and i stare at pixels passing me by

reality feels wavy 

and somehow still..

 the poems spill out in when i least expect them to,

when it is necessary. 

the resentment from many losses bites at my skin,

until i can no longer separate myself from my afflicted areas 

and everything is too red

and my skin wants to be scratched

and i can feel something within me stir in discomfort,

and settle like dust on a mantle of an abandoned home.

sometimes i wonder if that is what it feels like to physically acknowledge the soul.

the body is not connected

and this is why i think, each day, that i am broken.

.

,,,

.

.

.

.the most painful year i hope i have to live through

i don’t want to kill myself ,

so why do i think about it so often .

-

-