Writing a poem for the sake of writing a poem. I’m feeling emotions. More than ten. Emotions that numb the toughest of men. Even after all these exercises on Zen It still feels like I’m falling apart at the hem.
But it’s all good! Isn’t it? I’m here. Living through it with fear Just ordered a double gin and some beer But the mere feeling evokes a tear and leaves me kneeling at the gateway of those emotions. Dripping all over me like hot lotion Without commitment or devotion. And everything feels like it's slow motion.
So apparently it’s normal. To feel things. They say all the stings and the pings are worth it because we’re not supposed to be perfect, and ‘these feelings need to be nurtured’. *******. It’s all a bit perverted like a lie that's murmured. This ******* feeling is so determined that I can't win. If I do, I'll be singed and pinned Even though I haven't actually sinned. Yet I'm the one writing this poem. Not her.
Where the **** is that beer? So I wrote this. This poem. Here.