All my shirts have bloodstains,
I don’t suppose that’s good.
At night I’d never kneel and pray,
But I applaud people who do.

To write nowdays takes effort,
An effort I don’t have.
Nothing in my life romanticizes,
My pen goes through collapse.

It’s rare for me to produce a thing,
For things require production.
I will sit and stare and waste my days,
I fret over my diction.

My poems are fading.
My life is not.