antithesis

i can't write anymore

and i know it's because

i am afraid of my own

truths

it's hard to find the

exact point where i

began slipping, because

usually it's with a whiskey

bottle in hand, but this

time sobriety haunts me

i become uncomfortable

at this point in a poem -

unsure of my intentions,

of who i am as a writer,

of my own ******* self

and so begins the anger,

the masking, the quitting,

the loneliness, the bubbling

of things that were once

dead and buried

and then i sit, and i don't

write in my head, and i

question it all with the

same intensity that has

lingered for nearly

two months, and i want

to take paper with my

words and shove it

back down my throat,

because this

is not

poetry

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