I don't write anymore.

I don't

smile to myself;

whisper to God.

I never sleep in
for innocent reasons.

I hide and glare.


I have aged.

I don't write anymore.

I read magazines.
I draw mustaches on pictures of

rich women.

I don't dream like I did,
asleep or awake.
Things make sense and
I journal the facts.




I have a five year plan.

Reality is

Heavy.

Mom and Dad have gotten old
and I have fat on my arms.

I don't write.

I copy words from textbooks

and mouths of authority.
I lie awake at night and think



in numbers and



shades of gray.

I don't wish anymore
as the world is finite
and fate is an office, a chair, a desk, a husband, and tired eyes.

I ask myself if I am happy
and I never know,
I never know.

I don't write anymore.
I don't laugh with the wind or
run without direction or
put bugs in little jars and
smile and smile and smile.
I don't create my own world.

I don't write anymore;

Instead I cry



because

the past


is



dead,


buried,
and gone.
The past is dead. The present is confined. The future is bleak.

And you have pointed out
that
I don't write anymore.

Beat... beat... beat....


I can't even breathe.