And this is what we do:
write words.
In a world of cardboard cut-outs,
we try to be different.
Same words.Same themes.
Fuck you,
that mental block that forces
bullshit from my pen, while thoughts bleed
like poetry in my veins.
They never go anywhere, just recycled cells,
leaving me undone.
Fuck you Poem
for forgetting how to speak my name
out loud, perched on your lips like
I was someone you loved, someone
who had something to say.
All these words have turned on me,
and I no longer try to impress you
with another line of this failing language.
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