3/2/2016

It's March again
and I'm lost again
wondering about the Delaware

Feeling like a child
who got more than she could
bargained for

colds bitter
good, it was a short winter
I'll never be that wholehearted

girl again,
but it was a short winter
My writing is disgusting,

Only good when I'm suffering
and the thing is I'm suffering now
and I don't know why nothing is

coming out
The year is grey, egg washed and egg white,
Painted and glazed over with

typhoid
I don't walk anymore to the reserve
don't see a point in it

There's no motivation to
see the world
try to find beauty in things

I'm trying to find where
I went
and trying to find where

I put my sanity,
Left it in a biohazard box
picked it back up ungloved

I put my hiking boots up
feel bad for the unloved agronomias
and I think it always gets better

but since my poetry's getting worse
I can't say with certainty
my world won't either.