45 Readings | 0 Ratings

Epistolary Blues

Words are like showing up,

sometimes they’re all that matters.  The rest

 

gets martyred in a haze.  The work, the interior

struggle, has to mean something.  Days and nights

 

of neurotic and/or due diligence testing.

The abstinence. 

 

The fornication.  It used to be easier to be anyone, start over

every night.  It was lonely and exhilarating.  But – ah! the same yearning

 

remains.  The interior has just become a little more

obsolete, the self

 

more formed, less dynamic.  And ah! the quietness

of me, yields

 

a real life, strange

but true.  And let’s talk about truth, people.  Truth is an intention.  Truth

 

is a commitment

to that intention.  A process

 

of expression.  A voice.  It is not objective; neither is it impossible. 

Rather, it is inevitable.  It is non         -fake-able (un  -fuck    -witable), and it is the joy

 

of living, good or bad.  So don’t shroud my hallowed innocence

with unnecessary concentration

 

or peace offerings.  I’m not here to do the right thing.

 

 

 

 

 

Posted 05/26/17
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