There is poetry
that rubs on my bones like sandpaper
I am waning under the weight
of losing myself
to mediocre creative expression
as I write with my arthritis fingers
pieces of who I am
drop to the floor
leaving loneliness to fight
with the happiness my mind is trying to find
as my bones become ghosts
of what they were when I was born
fragile to the touch
of everyone I ever loved
God looks at me as his only failure
He never expected for me to fade
this quickly
beside the guided worries
that I was never meant to be alive
these words change my mind for
a moment in time
but I am still left with
a self destructing body
and a decaying mind