Nothing worthy of me
writing is coming out at
this time, I don’t know if
my mind is fried, or I am simply
terrified that all this is
just a glimmer of unfounded
hope. Lightning strikes a time
or two on the paper, but can
it be quantified? And even
more, can it be
duplicated?
Sometimes I think that
the last poem will be the last
and I will not be able
to survive without putting
a word down, somewhere.
But what if the word is not
a word but a pretentious
statement of what I think
life is without even knowing
how to describe what
surrounds me anymore; this
pain of knowing that I
exist for nothing more than
the entertainment of the gods,
but the gods themselves do
not exist and I am simply here:
A speck of dust in an
improbable world that will
blow up one day and not
even the memory of the things
I wanted to say will remain.
What is it all for if
I cannot express myself on
this paper?