sometimes it doesn't feel worth it.
the words are there.
the feelings court the heart.
the notes are all neatly placed,
and the decisions have been made.
a long black tunnel
leading to more darkness
like the murk of emptiness
enveloped in mud.
there's the story and the poem
and not every one hits the mark.
and the trashcan is full with crumpled
digital prints.
and the sound is muffled
by the muck.
and you can't tell if there's even
an audience.
but the words connect
and the sentences are broken
like they should be
and the point has been made,
but it is emptiness pristine.
it leaves a hole
in the ozone
of the soul
where the precious parts
leak free and i
wonder
if there's anyone
down below
to catch the remnants
of me.
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