My body rejects the writing
because writing
is like an I.V. in my veins.
It clears the venom
out of my body
and dries up
the river of words
in my mind.
I do not want to be
a skeleton
with pretty bones
and no substantial thoughts.
Writing polishes my soul
but I lose the piece of me
that made me fight.
I have so much to say
but I am slowly
chipping away and
all I can do
is watch my brain decay.
Every time I write
my fingers crack under the pressure
that maybe after this poem
everything will be ok.

One day has just passed into another
and I am sat in my bed
reading poem after Bukowski poem
trying to understand my life
but I am stuck in my head
against a door with no key
and no warden for me
to bargain with
my eyes are locked
on what I used to think
was the truth
but my body knows that
people lie
with the utmost contempt
and I don’t know
if reading all these poems
will ever make me feel whole again
but I wait for my soul
to find my body once more
and continue to move my eyes
across my laptop screen
looking for
the meaning of life

I feel the words coming back
and I’m not sure if that is good or bad
I write and write
only when there is unending turmoil inside
strengthened by the fear
that I may be getting bad again
sad
lost
trying to maneuver my bones
in this lightless room
I was not equipped
to be in charge of my body
on another trip into the darkness

There have been many days without me
and there will someday be much more
but what has changed is the waning of
my own personal desire
to reach it faster,
instead
I am fascinated by the world
never the same at any given time
obsessed with how the light bends
around my fingers as I reach for the sky
finding new ways to fall in love with the fact
that I no longer want to die
and in turn, hoping to make the days with me
mean more than I could ever have imagined
instead of years ago when I was just hoping
for it all to end