and i am tired of reading
all of these words i wrote as if
i thought i might actually
know something

i am tired
of these empty notebooks
like mute accusations

if you were in this room
right now
you would smell desperation

would feel a small cool breeze as
the storm pushes its way north

picture it

three years in this house
and i know none of my neighbors

ten years in this town
and i refuse to call it home

and did i pray
at my father’s bedside
in the last days before his death?


and does this
make me a bad person?

i’ve been told that it does

and there is a man
who returns what i send him with
a note that says
“these are not poems”
and there is the possibility that
he’s right

there are my hands
crippled with self-doubt

burned and then healed
and then burned again until
they refuse to acknowledge the
simple pain of passing days

and if i don’t call myself
an artist
then i can’t be crucified
as a witch

the logic is subtle
but it’s there

think of war

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