Sometimes We Write

Sometimes all that's left is a metaphor...

Sometimes we're drunk on love.

Sometimes we spill the wine.

Sometimes you're gaining in the race.

Sometimes the world just... passes you by...

       I'd hold a grudge

       but it melts right through my clench

       in the light of what my temporal


       should address.

Sometimes we mumble one-third truths,

    jacking off our thoughts into pots

    better left for humble bread.

Sometimes we stain our sustenance like that,

    spoil our rations like us,

    malnourished priorities.

    No wonder some scream God is dead.

Sometimes we keep to ourselves

    ignoring the hand that held us

    when we were alone.

Sometimes we're cocky like that

    and it crumbles humanity

    an extra chip.

Sometimes poets camp out under the stars

    to absorb a glow to their pens.

Sometimes that's as selfish

    as it gets...

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