uselessness
my poetry is dead and I will follow soon
my words haunt
and I can no longer give them their weight
I always thought I was an opener
that I help those around me, with a word, with my presence, with an idea
but everything was just an illusion
at least if I could cry
but my soul is drier than the desert
barren land on which not even the dunes run
I ground the meat of the words, keeping only the shell for the world
my thoughts run wild to nowhere
and yes, my poetry is dead. at least if I had the forgotness
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