These things
I warrant, and see,
these ghosts, aspirations and hopes
these fading things.
My eyes, in a cracked mirror.
This ghost, clattering…

I talk so fucking fast.

A poet of listicles.
Shallower than Plath.
No clue
where my inner Prufrock sits.

As if there could be another…

Failure, to be clear,
bounced repetitive,
just some dumb, self-mumbed, fast-talking fool,
no writer
No poet. Clear.

The high bridge is beckoning,
the storm, pulling breath in…

A prayer to fade away,
for, finally, if not fury,
at least some storm.

About Martin

I'm just... filling time.
This entry was posted in Creative Writing, Midlife, Poem, poetry and tagged , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

8 Responses to Eh…

  1. GinAndTulips says:

    I thought I would drop by and say hello…

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