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Fragments, because the same few people keep telling me I should move back into poetry.

This is why I refuse to listen.


I cough up blood like Keats,
reminiscing of poetries not written.
Joseph, covered in the blood of my consumption
A wrecked and ravaged body,
thinking better thoughts,
of a heaven of love and writers.
But I die still,
A cancer.
And the poetries still unwritten.



The insincere, cold feeling of sobriety nags at me
nipping on my heels, hounding me, harassing me.
Through foggy eyes and delayed cognition,
a hazy filter between What Is and What Is Perceived (and What Ought Be!)
the lies of sobriety haunt me. Chase me, always catching up.
Nothing I can do will keep them at bay.

Comments

Unrelated note to your delightful poetry (yeah, I haven't said that in years, so take it for whatever that is), upon reading that your name is "P" I immediately get "Friends of P" stuck in my head for the second time tonight. Kudos.