Poetry Month

This is supposed to be the month all great poets come together and write. This soul is to scream out, And rebirth, And become something real, Thirty times; This is my fourth. And I don’t know what’s wrong with me, I’ve even resorted to having my typed words all grouped in the center. Maybe all I need is the correct form. Since I left you, I haven’t been able to write the same way. And you know, Maybe that’s a good thing, Because out of my five-hundred poems, Modestly, Four-hundred and twenty were about you. I have never been so in-love with the idea of being in-love with someone. And that’s all it was, I tried to love you, But I never could. I was in love with whatever I say we could make, Some sort of happily ever after, But I was doing was settling. And maybe you were my muse and I lost you. Or maybe it’s that I have no idea what the hell is wrong with me. I know the symptoms: Anxiety; the wringing if hands, Sleep; forever tired, Empty; broken glass. So maybe I should give up. I can’t even move. Maybe I should just realize my place. And sleep it away. Maybe I should just buy an Eno and sleep outside and maybe figure it out under the stars, And read Mein Kampf, To figure out that something’s will never be understood. And maybe I should give up on April and wake up when May ends. Maybe I should stop half quoting Green Day. Maybe I should end this poem mid.. Just kidding, I still know to resolve. But I have nothing left to say. Just Silence