i used to
feel the compulsion
to document my
every breakdown
in lowercase dismay
but tearing off
the many scabs
became a symptom
all of its own

now i keep
the beauty i see
selfishly inside
rather than scream
into the void
where nothing
seemed to matter

used to dream
one day the words
would matter to
someone struggling
but it was only
a one man echo chamber
of insidious miseries
eating itself as
just another oroboros
of bipolar nonsense

a poet is an empty shell
outgrown by a hermit crab
which when held to your ear
leaves the lamentations
of an ocean unseen
hollow bones rattling
on a desolate wind which
carries the cold of wintery dismay