I fear at times that I don’t know if my true self is still within me
Sometimes I fear she’s gone away
Sometimes I catch glimpses of her
In poetry I have saved, yet no one cares to read it, at least not fully through
I understand what Kurt said in his last note
Needing to be unfeeling, in desperate attempts to regain enthusiasms that were once had in years of early childhood
I feel utterly alone most days
Many years I have yearned for something I do not even know what is
What am I without my writing? What am I with it?
I can never write consistently, I can never predict what I will feel from one day to the next, yet many days feel the same
And there lingers the same utter pain
Writers block is an unintentional passion of mine
Fear is my best friend
Sadness is one of my greatest companions
Nostalgia appears several times a week
Anger eats me alive
Am I anything but a mere tragedy? A copy of other poets who have lost their minds? Am I original enough? Why must I feel the need to be so unique, to over explain everything I have ever felt?

What happens when someone falls out of love?

Is there a single, frozen in amber, sanctimonious moment when
you decide you’re too good for whomever - the falling-out moment
- where imperfections are revealed like a magic trick?

“Huh,” you find yourself saying, “Weren’t you cuter, half-an-hour ago?

Or is it a slow, drip, drip, drip Chinese-water-torture-like seepage?

Maybe breakups are written in the stars, you know, Mercury drifts into
retrograde and suddenly there’s empty air where your lover used to be.

I’m not in a breakup, but I like to be prepared - these are just questions.

like

Isn’t every male whale a ***** whale?
.
.
A song for this:
If I Didn't Have You (Live) by Tim Minchin

The depth of his heart,
like a book shrouded in
mysticism,
wonder,
anticipation.
I flip through the pages,
until my eyes grow tired,
and my hand aches.  
The end nowhere in sight.
Whenever I almost put the book down,
I get a tiny insight into his heart.
Playing me like a fool into
short-term satisfaction,
and long-term despair.

I sat there waiting for myself;
patiently, so anxiously- my thoughts between beauty,
love, ambiguity; a tragedy and all manners of happenings.
While we were both picturing the inkling of make-up
***- but we lacked the foundation of making love.

Holding onto the fear of more arguments
afterwards, so tightly like a hug. I was choked
out for most of my words, fitting over the hand
of fabrications, like a perfectly fitting glove.

It all became a tacit question
between the both of us: “this time, will we make
an effort at making love, or is it another downwards
spiral of us just being so down to ****?”