Poetry haunts me again

It haunts like an old woman who is never loved, much like my mother-in-law, never loved, never in my lifetime by me but who
does much more for my family than my whole family put together, poetry like that does to me much bigger contributions I can’t afford to love
in this bloody lifetime of mine when there are
more important things to do, like be poetry’s gentle reminder of better options at hand than loving it, it shooes me off ever so sarcastically yet gentle like an old hag about to blow her fuse, for doing so much for me
and suffering the worse for it, the ingratitudinal wretch that she makes me out as, doesnt befit my imagery of me being a poem and I
break lines, breaking its back almost, breaking the bridge of its nose too, breaking…
against it
for she haunts my inability to love so much, that one person I can’t love, ever, for being born as me and her being the way she is in my life, a poem of such useless want that it begs expression in so many words those war against each other to look better in the reflection of the relationship I paint of it and me.


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