There becomes a time when you realize that your poetry is better than your fiction
The deaths in your life, sap your creativity.
With all dead friends, what can blossom?
Bad decisions and body parts
Like the flesh from a tree, positivity follows suit
But the arms of which carry you are wrecked
Because they are the arms of the grieved
The beautiful, belligerent, alcohol tolerant lives that you have left behind
There are your friends, that die like a hard rain.
But they are just as refreshing and reflect just as much sunlight.
But they die just the same
Suns die, stars burn out
Just as you realize that the hoped for importance of your writing was never as important as your friend