The poetry is gone, it's too much like the rest.
writing carbon copies of loves and past deaths.
looking for a break through, knowing theres nothing left.
Theres nothing in this ink
save the monthly issues I think
the subscription to apathy
the premium I link,
to my life and my mind
knowing nothing ties in with time.
seeing the world pass by me
while slowing down in the middle lane, weaving lines.
when something new comes along it will connect itself to the past
the past is the only reasons these poems end to fast.
Through November.
Into December.
Freezing and faulting pain to remember.
no time to rhyme.
return to sender.
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