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.
Writer Moe 