all the words we don’t say
12/18/2021
I once thought the job of a poet was to snapshot
(life through a socially and politically unbiased lens).
as foolish as that sounds, I thought that was my task.
more and more, it seems, I save snapshots for last
and too often prioritize pitying myself (poetically).
the worst part is: I don’t even know why I’m crying;
furiously typing poems without marketable meaning
(beyond being self-loathing philosophical puzzle pieces).
I used to feel honored to write poetry; like someone or
something was being channeled through me. now I wonder,
“why me? why did they fucking save me?”
I’m clearly spiritually protected—otherwise
I wouldn’t have survived (the car accident I got into
last Sunday which totaled my car). I nearly took my life
but ironically left me without any poetic physicality.
it’s funny how messages mar themselves with immobility.
[poetry has literally driven me to insanity.
I totaled my car on 95 last week
and it still feels so surreal to me]
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