my passion is broken;
i spend my days and nights
knitting, organizing,
drinking, waiting
writing poetry hasn't ever felt hard
so maybe it's the zoloft, maybe
it's the dull repetition of days
the humdrum chaos of getting older
i want to be kissed, hard
and deep and long,
by someone with strong hands
and unwavering concentration
i am happy and quite sad
and quietly fulfilling my duties.
i'm typing this at my desk
and it feels wrong and bad
my therapist told me the antidote to burnout
is variety rather than rest--
so let the various archbishops of my life be told
that i am so ******* tired
there is a man here, he is broken,
but in his eyes there is passion,
and in between my thighs there is fear,
and i'm absolutely frozen
so tonight i'll drink,
and knit, and write e-mails,
cross my fingers and pray,
that something magical happens
i'm so bored and i think my poetry is broken so i'm trying to start again
