You are my ghostly apparition in the night,
appearing when I close my eyes.
I don't know if I'm dreaming,
or if this is the cold, hard reality.
I'm sorry-
I can't finish that sentence,
I need to say it. I need to-
Deep breaths.
One...Two...Three
I'm sorry that you feel the need to be with me.
There. I said it.
I am sorry that you are watching over me.
I am sorry.
I need to tell you something.
Are you here?
I can't feel you anymore.
Please, have you left me alone?
I'm grateful, I truly am.
But you need to go now.
I don't need to be watched over any longer,
your job is done.
I-
No, I can't say it.
Oh, Vengeful Spirit,
apparatus of my despair.
I-
I love you, but you don't belong here-
with me.
I don't know who you are,
but I ask of you-
No, I'm begging you,
Let me go.

Who owns grief?
The one who cries the loudest?
The one who acts the most disturbed?
     Or *******-ish?
     Or eerily withdrawn and quiet?
The one who had The Best Relationship with the dead?
     The most unresolved?
The one who feels the most guilt?
     Who feels out of place at the funeral?
     Who resents the world?
     Who is named in the will?

How many people can have a share?
Who is allowed a say on the Board of Grief?
     Are children underage?

How powerful are the grieving?
Enough to command a neighbor’s chicken soup?
     Casserole?
     Cake?
     Family heirloom?
     House?
     Family entire?
     Telephone call?

Why are we here when
awareness cites through
the left and the right
Self questions self
There is no us and them
Just us
To effect our reality
we need to
become bigger than I

Silent eyes
Words unspoken
Verses written
Apologies given

Losing voice
Minds refraining
Old moon’s waning
A soul’s new painting

Verbal life
Lines on run
Vocal chords sung
And a world undone

In our poetry it’s hidden
The questions we are asking
And answers I’ve never won

In the slammer

Doing stir

Eating porridge

Do your time

Does the punishment

Fit the crime

Is this the act of a civilised nation?

Revenge or rehabilitation

If we send someone away

On a governmental holiday

Slamming shut that big grey door

Should we question a little more

What the hell are we doing it for?

I used to write to inspire.
To let other knows what I was feeling by painting scenic views with my words
So that they'd know they weren't alone
So they'd know that no matter what happens,
Someone else is alongside them
Even if it was some stranger way out in the big wide open world

But now I feel alone

Which doesn't make any sense because I have a family that I hand-picked,
And am almost never actually alone

And also doesn't make sense because I still write
Which, one would assume means I've encountered a solution to this issue

But the writing doesn't help
And the cigarettes stopped working
So I'm stuck

And the thing is, I keep reading and rereading my old works
And none of it actually helps

Even when I distance myself from the piece and read it from a new perspective I end up getting the question I can't answer:
Why the **** does it matter if we experience the same or even similar pains?
Who am I, to think my experiences are worthy or even meaningful enough to share and spread like a virus?

So why do I write?

I'm just some guy on the internet
A shitposter trying to squeeze some semblance of a serious tone from the internet
A mind screaming to have some form of deep, meaningful conversation with anyone
When in reality that doesn't matter to anyone
Because life has squeezed sentiment until it became a pebble being kicked on the park sidewalk

So why pick up a pen to write to a world that no longer remembers how to read?

It makes about as much sense as

Well anything really

Maybe that vague understanding of nothing making sense ever is my reason

Maybe I don't really need a reason to express myself

But *******, would it be nice

So go ahead and tell me, child.
Would it all have been worthwhile
To tread upon Eliot's allusiory notion
Having bitten off the matter with a smile
Negating warnings, blinded by devotion?
To have squeezed the universe into a ball
During our days to ****** and create
Amnesic to past transgressions of a dying fall
Divulging the insidious question upon our plate?
Daring to disturb the song of the universe
Repeating the same indecisions and revisions
In which we must ultimately reverse?