Why must I feel more passion
for missed opportunities than
for the continuous love

flowing at my feet?

I am both overflowing
and desperately dry.

You scribble yourself
on scraps of me.

You scatter them around
your room, wallet, shoes.

And this is love,
we are certain.

You deserve more
than this oddly-
shaped heart.

My heart fills with you
then is rung out, and
left to dry.

calloused toes
can’t feel the cold
of the linoleum floor.

we get hobbit feet
in the summers–a result
of running shoeless and living

dangerously.

layers of dead skin
but i don't feel
like i’m missing anything.

i’m not missing anything.

At what point
does writers' block
become retirement?

I've been drawing
blanks for six
years straight.

What am I now, if
not a writer? Nothing echos
along the walls of my skull.

But to be nothing is more
poetic an existence than any.
I am not worthy enough

to be nothing.