it’s broken
the words are falling
upon
now deaf ears
all i have
are the words
and
they have abandoned me
poetry has died
inside
my unresponsive
soul
i have stopped dreaming
of her
of joy
of happiness
of anything
left with the emptiness
new year
same depression
no hope
just this familiar despair
the last abandonment
of
the broken fool
is when
he has finally
abandoned himself
i’m sorry
but the song
is not one
i feel like singing
any longer
the death of a would be poet
Mike's Manic Word Depot 
cin cin to mateship guys!
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Was (is) it a slow death?
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yes it is. slow enough to feel every cell decay.
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Slow enough to hear the scream of a butterfly?
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slow enough to remove the urge to ever write any more shitty prose as the butterfly screams give up into my ear
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Those damn things never stop screaming. If people only knew . . .
I hear you though. I was working on a piece yesterday morning and all I could do was question what the hell I was even doing. What am I trying to say? Why am I even trying to say it? Who cares? I don’t know.
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I get it. Just remember you are fucking amazingly talented. And I know of a handful of us that care about every word you put out.
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I appreciate that, really. The same can be said for your work. I guess I just feel like a pretentious, whining dick sometimes. Maybe the entirety of a writer’s work is nothing more than a slow death put to words.
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death by a thousand paper cuts, best we can hope for.
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Beats cancer.
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