i've spent a lot of time writing poems about the tumbleweeds that roll past my window
when i'm lying supine in a stupor of my own making— stuck between my blown out stars.
there's nothing poetic about the way a coyote knaws at my bones when i'm sleeping
no symbolism in the marks in the dirt beneath my boots.
it's just dirt.
i try to find the beauty in another day waking me up with a violence that scorches through my nuerons.
stars popping out to reflect that one, stoic sun. an unforgiving menance threatening to make me exinct.
make me go wild.
what's left if i don't have a song to sing around my campfire?
what can i do if the blanket of night drops onto my shoulders and suffocates me down into the ground?
how do you control the desolate unending existence of poetry?
is there ever an stopping point for the dejected, exhausted poet?
probably not. better just try and get some shut eye in the meantime.
30/30
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Points: 2099
Reviews: 355