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