I have only written one poem all year. My mind is taken by it’s own lack of hope and yet also by it’s unbelievably campy denial that there’s ever anything wrong. I am a broken machine. Nothing complex. Something like a typewriter.

I find I break easier than I bend. I find myself corrupted by dreams of utopic euphoria. True dreams but, nonetheless, dreams for now. I find myself confused and alone and unspeakably bothered to find myself without the people that I chose to push away. I am a contradiction. My girl tells me I ought to listen better to myself to hear the contradictions. I’m afraid I already can…

And they are manifest in each unsteady step already taken. My footprints in the sand look more like injured fumbling. Coming from a higher place, now lost in the rising surf as I stumble ever downward. I am a simple broken contradiction of a machine that stands alone on this far beach, gently rusting as the water salts my fragile gears.

Did I mention I’ve only written one poem all year?

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