no words
no images
nothing
works well enough
there's not even
much comfort
in the familiar
cold comfort
when there is
heaviness
ache
sleep is
no escape
when what little sleep
actually comes
better to just
keep moving
slowly,
achingly
trudging on
what else is there to do?
what else is there?
what else?
what?
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
1 comment:
in hind sight (with the objectivity of about 2 weeks) this seems like a pretty poor poem. But that's what happens when you're hurting. Bad poetry. And isn't that the point of poetry? Catharsis? The best thing I can say about this poem is that it's raw.
Post a Comment