The moon shines as a cross through my blinds,
And it is no longer poetic.
I fear nothing more shall ever be....
And I weep.
I weep
At 2:18 A.M.
In front of poets that don't give a **** about these words.
In front of a god who stopped caring long ago.
I weep not for myself,
But for the child who once saw poetry in every scene, regardless of how ugly or beautiful it was.
The moon light is a cross through my blinds,
And I could give a **** less.