I used to be a writer

Piano fingers, are
lobster claws.
A lazy cell
in reverse.

Paintbrushes collecting dust
slump in tin cups
brown strips of rust

Camera lenses giving me the eye
wondering why
I won’t pick up the pen and paper.
or at least try.

what is a feeling.
internal hallucination
of a sensation
None of it is true.

Or maybe it is,

I don’t know.

But I used to be a writer.

A hero
A villain
a fighter
a loser


But I would rather be nothing
no one
than something

The soil of defeat
in my eyes
in my face
in my mouth.

I can taste the bitter flesh
of Earth.
from my mother.

Tears from the compound eye.
Wondering why



*Image is not mine.

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