This piece of paper rejects the kiss of my old pencil lead-
Its blackness fading
Its magic disappearing
Its meaning slowly annihilating itself.
My muse has turned into a black screen;
Embroidered with small white pills and
Large doses of alcohol
Radiating myself, this black hole
in a galaxy with only stars remaining
In this vacuum, I ask myself only one thing
Am I really a poet ?
if the only thing I can write about now
is how I have nothing to write about.
Jan 4, 2020
Jan 4, 2020 at 6:04 AM UTC
This piece of paper rejects the kiss of my old pencil lead-
Its blackness fading
Its magic disappearing
Its meaning slowly annihilating itself.
My muse has turned into a black screen;
Embroidered with small white pills and
Large doses of alcohol
Radiating myself, this black hole
in a galaxy with only stars remaining
In this vacuum, I ask myself only one thing
Am I really a poet ?
if the only thing I can write about now
is how I have nothing to write about.
from: myself
to : myself
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