What is there to say?
Would it not be easier.
Would it not be simpler.
I hate this frustration.
I hate that my words are flat.
Why is this so difficult, when it used to flow like the rain in may.
So here I am.
Using pathetic rhymes,
it's not my style,
it's not my prose.
Here I am three years later still saying nothing.
So no you didn't miss a thing.
I would blanket you in prose, if I knew the words or I had ever felt a damn thing.
Sitting next to you I don't feel the flutter.
No innate drama, what are we?
What where we?
Nothing worth remembering.
It's been a difficult week.
And a shittier month.
Relatives born anew, rise from the ashes.
My father's mother does clamber her talons seeking around my arm she needs the support.
I try not to cringe.
My nephew is joy. My nephew is pure.
What he may be,
what he may not be,
Classes. Papers. Skin jackets torn from cats. My life lumbers past.
And i'm typing.
My legs are burning,
and people are moving about.
"What in the hell are they doing awake?"
Our hero doth mutter.
Quote. Quoted. Quoting. It's all you need to pass a English course.
I m lonelier than shit. And I don t know if I can Make another day. More and more, I feel a dime a dozen.
Nostalgic and frank I find myself once more embraced in my own ego.