I Won’t Write Again

I won’t write again

I hate trying to string words together

And phrases

What do they become?

A man’s hopeless attempt to understand his world

To master his world

To master his obsessions

To conquer his whims and indulgences

And when everything has been decided

He goes back to the same position

And screams at his mind for letting go of resolve

Who are I?

Who am I?

A reckless fiend

A wanderer on this wretched world

The Void

I am stuck in this void

A void of my creation

I live for the minute

Sometimes for the second

And always for the single breath

Life’s outdone me

I am incapable of thinking about tomorrow

Tomorrow is a fallacy

Tomorrow is a scam

Tomorrow is for the hopeful

But if you are stuck in a void

Tomorrow is the biggest joke

You’d ever want to hear

The Mourning Poet

Why should a poet’s muse always be pain?

Why?

Why should a poet mourn of a lost something?

Lost love,

Death,

Infirmity,

Why is a poet always on the receiving end

Of all the pain assigned to humans

Why?

Why do poets carry burdens for far too long?

Why do poets love deeply?

Why do they give their whole soul

And hearts

To an uncaring world

Are poets blind to the life’s simple bliss

Are poets immune to good things

Why are poets concerned too much?

On lost things

Instead of what remains

When everything is gone

Why do poets always rummage

Through ruins,

Searching what’s already gone?

Why?