Struggle, as I might
To list the words that reflect back
Sickness, to my heart,
For what I see upon the flowing pages
That receive the endless words
Is the guilt that replaces me, by a flood,
By a hole,
By a void
That sticks to my fractured flesh,
Sticks to my pleading voice,
Attached upon my anguished self.
Leave me to count the stars,
For they cannot be very numerous
As the tears I leave to fall,
to grow my crops
As winter does not take much of a toll
As the coldness, within me.
Leave me to signify wisdom
As the evil, for my intimidation.
Leave me as the crushed spirit I am
For I am endless, in my pain.
Does the ocean feel as much loneliness, as I?
For what can I write,
If not the mere sadness
That strikes a needle to unbind the knots,
That topples the wheel that was always flat,
That steals the day to make it the night?
Upon this typewriter of shame,
I face what I feel, in my unending disdain.
Modern Romanticism 