November 15, 2024
DONE WITH POETRY With trying to find the words that can set me free, I’m tired of tapping on these keys like some drunken piano player hoping the melody will come clean. It’s always a mess and it’s never the same, even during summer, he feels like the winter that will never leave. It plagues him like metastasized cancer or a disease. Like, the dead leaves on the dirty ground and a heart decaying, frozen, he’s become. And frozen he remains. He feels like every days the same, As if he’s living some sort of never ending nightmare, terror. And nothing brings satisfaction or absolution. He asks God, Is this what I must become? Asleep for weeks in a solitary darkened shack And although he wants to be held by another man, He doesn’t know if that’s a good plan. If this is the season of want, why does he y...
