I was dead, not long after I stood.
Sewn words, bound in useless rambling.
Cradled were my words in silence.
A dear diary no one gave a fuck about.
Arthritic ink, pushing against the counter
Aweighing anchor,
Dredging along each consonant
Pushing adverbs into pulp.
A version of a darkness in service.
A prolonged perturbance of want.
A rerun program prostrating a slow death on midnight cries
Pining of aloneness–evermore.
Fast-forwarding through your melodrama.
The same bullshit.
The same recycled letters.
A long-winded page of a poet's self-sabotage
Airing out in run-on sentences.
Putting the weakness in vowels: U & I.
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