Monday, October 12, 2015

And what good is that?

There is nothing left to do
except crawl into bed
 and never wake up again.
So this is grief, you find yourself thinking
With your heart gauged out
Your eyes heavy lidded,
Unwilling to open and see the world again.
So this is how life marks us
With our first failures.
The crying hasn't started yet,
maybe it will, maybe it won't
Maybe this time it will wander off on its own
and not bother you except maybe
when you hear your mother's voice
and only when you are reading your own poem
years later, wishing to save you from yourself.
Newly twenty two and a failure already
Newly twenty two and love is no longer enough
Newly something, already a nothing
A non-entity, a non-person
And then nothin, noone.
A one-time someone
Now no longer anyone.
A has-been.
A writer who cannot write.
And what good is that?