Poetry, such bullshit
Can't sleep
It's daytime
Can't stay awake
I'm exhausted
When is dinner, when is evening, when is bed time
I'm ready
For tomorrow
Doesn't bring anything new
But perhaps
A different menu
*
My mind wanders to the furthest
Corners of the room
Which activity can I do
Should I stay or should I sit with my back
Pressed against this plushy couch?
To move
Is it worth it?
*
Filtering, pouring, waiting, sipping
This is my coffee we speak of
In the morning I crave it
In the night I avoid it
Getting too old for such
An exhilarating relationship
This is my emotions,
We speak not.
*
Do you feel the prose?
What about my craft
Are you invoked by what I said?
Have you stopped to think?
I doubt you,
More than you can ever know.
This is garbage.
*
A poet is a poet is a poet.
Sitting with my fingers nimbly
Putting nonsense into life
Tap tap, tip tip
Now I'm off to fucking write.
*
Comments
Post a Comment