There are too many bullshit poems
I could write, swirling around in a
purgatory of contemplation ,
But it’s the same lines, same stale
sentiment , how many times can I write about your eyes? Or the stars? Or slow
moving time?
or the fucking searing red angst flowing
under my skin,
I have highways for veins , transient
blues of blood that can’t breathe
I could write about my drumming pulse
again , write a trite line about a broken
heart,
pen my personifications of a familiar
anxiety,
I could pick you apart,
talk about your words like mechanical
clockwork,
But none of it would suffice;
it’s all filler , simmering beneath scalp
and skull
I’m so much more than an errant
ink blot, of porous paper and greedy pen
but even when that ache becomes dull
I find myself here, thirsty to begin.
- @leftypoet













