the instantaneous yet short-lived
of this painkiller faded
years ago when I swallowed it
and ever since I’ve been waiting
for a little appeasement
I don’t discriminate
make it real like the vein
I traced here
or make it imagined
like the love within
Since I started this blog in January, I’ve averaged about one poem a week. I don’t write enough.
Across the board, people (including myself) don’t incorporate art enough into their lives. It carries with it this esoteric air, this backdrop of polarization, and people fear what they don’t understand.
From a fellow anonymous Internet poet: “when you die, no one is going to look at your hard drive. staple your poems to phone polls, wherever you go.”