Why does it take long to write a poem? are months consumed into few fleeting feelings? a poem is severed. Of feelings that need to be let go of, a delusion of a listen, poem doesn’t listen, what does it do? An appearance for no purpose, but to be outside is like braving the wind to tell the wind you have braved it, is this a poem? None of us know yet. Mounting feelings in an abandon, a poem deceives, and leaves them for dead, for forgetfulness is eternal, and the rest rot in several lifetimes, but the burden? Unburden, eventually? The poem is ******, Can we let go of it at all? It persists. We let them know we were there, to come face to face with selves of us, that we have avoided, does the poem really look out for you? And asks, pretending you know? Do we need no end? We are here to while away time and tell them we whiled the time away.