I thought I would write you a poem;
I wrote 100 lines of prose instead
only to unearth
3 lines of poetry
buried beneath the wreckage.

Redundancy.
I read my words
and I’m sickened,
that you had this
effect on me. I read
them and I’m fatigued
by the redundancy.
I have nothing to say
that hasn’t been said
in the same way
only reconstructed
to better play the illusion
of new ideas and
some sort of change.
There is always the basis
the substance of being
the substance being
my overactive feelings
and constant repression
of what makes me alive—
this feeds the depression
and I cry when I think
and I’m dead when I don’t
I’m lying when I speak
and lying when I don’t
I’m fighting every day
my feelings when I
have them, and finding
every day, I have more than
I can fathom, and I can’t
always put into words
how or why I feel things
so I tend to repeat
what comes naturally
and when I reread
I am exhausted by
my own redundancy.

scars cut like roads
that wind around your bones
it was snowing ashes
and your heart was aflame
your tongue grew cold
because you grew silent
your teeth were tired
and your feet ached
you hated your skin
but your eyes dried
and your fingers lay stiff
while the pain carried you away