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.


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