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by Justy Robinson 5 months ago in sad poetry
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Why I Rarely Have Work to Read

Photo by Jeremy Bishop on Unsplash

I'm feeling extra sensitive to the world today (./;)

like, almost crying to “Art is Dead” kind of sensitive,

like, almost crying to the giving of gifts kind of sensitive,

like, I don't know what to do with myself...

I never know what to do with myself.

It's a miracle I have anything written-

seeing as I doubt every word like they come from D. Trump

and erase as liberally as the bottom left corner.

Imagine I'm a tight rope walker:

my balance bar is the words I say I love

but do I really trust them enough to keep me afloat?

I spend more time standing at the start,

and with each step

anxiety moves me two more back-

and I can't get any help.

I drown in “My Dear Melancholy,”

sinking into my sheets as the music eats me

I'm no delicacy however, so it never really finishes-

just leaving me until the hunger cones

back to remind me of how little I'm worth.

Their words are sanctified,

my words are demons;

their words give purpose to life,

my words fall pointless.

Perhaps the time has come to hack off my legs,

break each finger - swollen to the size of piano keys,

cut open my chest and take out

my intestines,

my lungs,

my heart…

It's time to replace them with those from artists with things to say.

sad poetry

About the author

Justy Robinson

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