save me


when the past turns into

little half moons on the canvas that
covers me

when his name in any context ties knots
at the back of my throat

if only that could save me


so I go process in the worst way

I’m running on empty

I think maybe I’ve cried out all my sins

but I still need to write out all my


am I lonely or just alone

when you’re here but I can’t find you

I throw all this shit out into the

and hope it makes some sense

Author's Notes/Comments: 

Written 7/11/2021

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allets's picture

It Makes A Lot Of Sense!

Poetry is an excellent vehicle for sharing this kaleidiscope of emitions as notions for contemplation. Alone alone all alone. Talking and saying ends isolation (I forgot that recently). Silence can be wesponizing. cool write!