I'm that record player that keeps going on,
Playing the same old, outdated song.
I'm sorry.
All my poems spout the same cliches now.
Hell, I'm the embodiment of those cliches now.
I don't know why I'm suffering from the disease
Years after my exposure to patient(s) zero,
But here I am, sick, bed-ridden and sleep-deprived,
Scratching sores I thought had long healed up.
I'm sorry.
I'm sorry that I don't see colour anymore,
Just the monochromatic shading of decay.
I don't know how to pull myself back up again,
Can't remember how I did it the first time.
I was a ticking time bomb without even realising it,
And I don't even know if I've exploded yet,
Or if this is just the precursor, the countdown
To ripping apart everyone in my vicinity.
I'm sorry.
They say pain makes for the best artists, the best art,
But I'm too repetitive to make anything good.
Even the violent strokes of red have turned dark grey,
And they get darker the further down the abyss I go,
Where the darkness is so dense that light can't penetrate,
And I don't see the nightmares that have come back.
I'm sorry.

i am so tired
and upset

i toss my keys in the bowl by the door
and she kisses me softly,
happy to see me always,
no matter what version she gets

she hums against my lips, curving her mouth up into a smile
and i feel the tiny vibrations of joy
make their way through my body

it's like she's reading me
and suddenly, she knows exactly what kind of day i had
and gives me exactly what i need
and i know exactly how much i love her

and it is so much
and she is so good

they say
pain and sadness make you creative.
but i feel

empty.

my sadness is neither beautiful nor poetic