In Which I Don't Know.

so here it is,
that overflowing empty breath,
ragged and rasping and hot.
that old face you never recognize
the first time.
those claws
pulling everyone under you
to hold you up
despite their pleas and protests -
i'm not a foundation, i'm not a rock, i'm a person.

here it is again,
that useless vacuum,
those wet blurred intersections.
those lonely spaces full of secret
primal screams and old infected scars,
and you know them more than yourself
(you know everything more than yourself).
that clinging familiarity,
that revulsion.

In Which Maybe I'll Start Again Tomorrow, or Next Week, or Never.

Fuck today's poem. I'm tired of trying to come up with something beautiful every fucking day and never finding anything in my mind except meaningless shit. I'm tired of this being just another obligation to worry about. So fucking fuck. it. I'm not a writer.