i know its crap writing.
all of it.
but i have no place to put it anymore
and theres no one to tell it to…
i dont feel anything about anything anymore
and that makes for lousy prose,
theres no wants, no hopes, no dreams, no life,
even the pain is dulled…
i know i must be sad,
deep down-
and that if i were touched id probably cry,
but the world is gone
and so am i
and theres little to say
anymore.
its just a countdown,
these lousy poems,
i suppose soon enough theyll go altogether,
theyre tapering already..
as i am,
so are they.
the willow is nearing death,
it was inevitable from day one,
its just all kinds of awful cruelty
that she dies
like this.
till then,
i gather in branches
and try to still my shudders,
ive learnt, you see,
theyre useless,
and they only scare
those that watch…
so lean i in,
over water with no reflection
and wait alone
for the end.