The Day When No Poetry Exists But You Write Stuff Down, Just Not the Real Stuff Aka Throwaway Words

There's no poetry in me I'm empty I'll make sweeping remarks Change my mind Keep it in Spit it out Sink and fly Gaze out in a daze Lost beneath eyelids Too heavy to rise Too watched to sleep it off by closing I wish to be enclosed in an embrace that takes away all my periphery vision To fall asleep safe and protected Gently woken from sleep with no disapproval I want to finally be home Belong somewhere ---- I'm writing poems intended to be read So they are ruined and tainted As I say things people want to hear Or that they don't I need to write into the void Unaware of the reader Unconcerned by misunderstanding Conscious only of the feeling that I need to release Today... what, why would I talk about today? Tied in knots in poetry and thought ---- I'd like to write about identity Rationalise something about my self I'm certainly focussed on the subject But I've got nonentity vibes As I fling myself centre stage on occasion I don't know that person Perhaps I disengage the hyper critical Or fully engage it - realise I'll be criticised regardless and tip into the zone But the rest of the time I'm thinking... ---- What if I've misunderstood my whole life Hyper aware of every expression Picking up on cues Hearing nothing said directly because I heard so much that should have been out of earshot I don't want to blame anyone else We're all damaged I just want to set it all aside I'm going to look for respite in the moments We all have moments of beauty and moments that count...