The writing bug
2:10 p.m.//04.13.05

Mood: Don't want it

And now, a poem I wrote:

Contentment without contingencies; never to happen
Never asking
for any of this
Functionability; escaping rapidly
My silence; this incurable disease
So perfect
So beautiful, that every glance is killing me
Abrogate this inchoate mess
that stares in secrecy;
yearning and writhing
and burning for a result
But you will never know
of the hell that had to be escaped
and still remains
so that I may stand behind you; invisible
An epigone of the prudent,
while the wounds of the past resurface
and shine light on the sores I try to hide


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