poetry
is my
confessional
because
i cannot
imagine
anyone reading
(my)poetry
on purpose

at moments
like now
when i am
truly at
the end of
my rope
oscilating
poletopole
exhaustedbroken
with lapses
just too short
to fall asleep
failing to
escape even
mometarily
from this
existence
as the sun
drops from view
leaving harsh
bruising across
the evening sky

i feel the need
for confession

this snivelling
little fool
begging for any
relief in the silence
where the sparrows
rest in nests
leaving a throbbing
silence taptaptapping
on sanity’s door
dissociating into
the nebulous night
of ten thousand terrors
in sleep deprivation
and a gentle longing
for that which i only
know how to destroy

maybe once i am dead
someone will misread it all
follow the hidden trail
of breadcrumbs to the heart
of loneliness itself
only to find the only true
illusion i can cast
is one of any real depth