Failed.

originally written oct 2016. 



Alright I failed. Maybe I failed. As the crickets whine into another autumn, - and I get it. I should've gone so long ago, because some time ago in all the mess I lost all of myself and my pieces, and my... I don't know it was lost.
Entirely this time. Unlike all the fabricated false tortures before (for art! for youth! for anything..). Hah. Because those were the times I felt I was standing there in the middle of the Wide Open screaming poetry and it was good.
And then, this now, so bad.
Serious and lacking taste kind of terrible-bad.
The other day I picked up a pen and it trembled, it shook, all my letters looked a-mush. And that was it. That was the giving up reality. There's no new paintings, no new words, no new stories and no new love - so what the F have I done?
Sigh and breathe.
My own language, don't you see, "dear friend" (I once wrote), it's forgotten. I fear on certain afternoons (all of them) and certain shakes awake in sleep that I'll never find again - never see again - never truly create again. Cause what is that? This is the end, I well know it - curtain close on creativity.
If I could get the dream, the glittering other place we're all really writing about and so we share it - maybe. Maybe it's just the MOVING that matters. New entries and new walks home - new faces and new thoughts they've gotta muster. Escape myself if I could, so I will, cause I rattle the cage. And it aches.






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