For my dearest poet and friend,
Maria

hard in so many ways
hard cause I know before I begin,
I ain't got the words,
don't think anybody does

I am bereaved, bereft,
ruthlessly deprived by force
of the pretense of composure,
the daily mask worn to perfection,
to avoid detection by the world
of the sum total of the heartaches
brought by chance to my door

Thus stripped, I can give forth easy
screams that have no end, no use
for anyone but me and they,
when all said and never done,
give no relief and just continue endlessly,
form changed to silent ones,
and that is even worse, so much harder.

no point in questioning this fate,
work in a place where pain is routinised
so you can function and be of use

no point in questioning this fate,
but met my master, bested by the worst,
no training, no feigning - I am defeated,
and make no excuses for my loss,
of everything, of anything, for I have
entered a place where there is no poetry anymore