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 yearn for nothing? 

He wonders about war, 

about killing, 

about genocide, 

and begins to realize how insignificant his life is 

to everything 

that’s happening around him, 

all the death and destruction. 

And somehow, we all just continue 

to live.