each day begins
trying desperately
to recall the things
i have forgotten
as i lay craving
things i cannot have
if only i could
recall the itches
along my mind
i could treat myself
to a fresh round
of hastily stitches
to pull this tapestry
of hollow adorations
into a child’s sketch
of somber disillusionment

i cannot let go
let these memories
become nothing more
than scabs hanging
off of half healed
self inflicted wounds
they deserve better
than to be treated
the same as a poet
who accepted all
the blame for
trying for too long
after everyone else
simply gave up on him

each morning begins
as i run my mind
around the blank spaces
where longing and
reciprocation became
abscessed wounds on
the putrefied soul
of childlike wonder
phantom itching from
the best parts given
freely with nothing
gained in return
a rumbling tumble
of cantankerous desires
grown diluted by despair

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