a would-be-writer said

“Everything hurts,
It’s agony.
A deep a brooding
Malady,
A fit of creeping treachery.
It burns –
This hole in me.

It shutters and it mimics,
It tricks
With its intimates,
It’s something made of dust
On pictures,
But I know it’s killing me.”

he babbles on

“There are foreign boots
In sacred places,
Stomping like a marching band
Over fields of nukewaste graves
Filled with gunshot kids.
But all I feel
Beneath those tremors
Are just those petty,
Juvenile scratches
On those coffin lids.”

he  randomly utilizes the poetic refrain

“Everything hurts,
It’s agony.
A deep a breeding
Malady,
A fit of creeping treachery.
It burns –
This hole in me.”

he feels redundant
and
the volume of his voice is rising

“But for far too long
I’ve worn this crown;
It’s made of thorns and termites.
And though we’ve fought
And talked
I can’t calm down,
But I’m done
With all of these bad nights.”

he  believes he’s fixed the situation

the lover rolls over,
turning away from him

and herself

(she doesn’t like the way
his words can seethe)
“I love you, and I’m sorry,
That really is unfair.
For me it only hurts
Every time
I breathe.”

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