I fear at times that I don’t know if my true self is still within me
Sometimes I fear she’s gone away
Sometimes I catch glimpses of her
In poetry I have saved, yet no one cares to read it, at least not fully through
I understand what Kurt said in his last note
Needing to be unfeeling, in desperate attempts to regain enthusiasms that were once had in years of early childhood
I feel utterly alone most days
Many years I have yearned for something I do not even know what is
What am I without my writing? What am I with it?
I can never write consistently, I can never predict what I will feel from one day to the next, yet many days feel the same
And there lingers the same utter pain
Writers block is an unintentional passion of mine
Fear is my best friend
Sadness is one of my greatest companions
Nostalgia appears several times a week
Anger eats me alive
Am I anything but a mere tragedy? A copy of other poets who have lost their minds? Am I original enough? Why must I feel the need to be so unique, to over explain everything I have ever felt?

I'm desperately searching
For an ounce of permanence
In a world in which
Everything fades to nothingness

I think
the world
needs
more
of us
than we
can offer

i ask myself
questions my soul
refuses to answer
because it is soaked
in the silence of this night.

i refrain from anger
i build my castles
with strokes of moonlight
you only see it
in the luminescence of the night.

i lay lifeless on the ground
the sky above is a cutting board
i want to stick objects in there
with tools and utensils of memory.
i have forgotten my roots
because my wings dragged my
by the brink of death.


i wish not to be found
on such nights.
because i am not thinking
but breathing in unison.
i am believing my stories
and singing my own songs.
i am on leave.
and i desire to be.