I put my pen to paper,
Trying,
over and over,
to express events
and their effects.
And I try to believe
that these words
trickling down my wrist
have some sort of value
or purpose.

Maybe it's just vanity
to think that my thoughts
are worth something,
that they mean
anything
to the world outside
my mind.
But I try,
over and over,
to make this
hollow space
in my chest,
and this growing pain
in my head,
coherent.

Relate experience
through stanzas
and enjambment,
or a poorly
thought-out
metaphor.

I write it
and leave it.

My soul onto a page
in purple pen
in a library
surrounded by people
who have no idea
of my name.

This pieceofshit
I call a poem
that I write
and leave
and never want
anyone to read.
Because what is the
point?

These are just words
about a person
who you don't know.

What's the
point?

I don't pretend to know.

And yet the pen meets paper.
Again
and
again.