The wandering soul of the dragonfly monk

I don't write poetry anymore. The book and pen by my bed side table have become fixtures,   part of my room decor. I don't write poetry anymore,  i stopped when i found him on top of me just as the moon joined the death of day, into obscurity I don't write poetry anymore especially as words now hold grunts, screams and words hold tears- Poetry is no longer poetry empty...empty like the uterus that no longer holds life a death of a dream- flickering like a dying lamp. I don't write poetry anymore i now have a selection of 'faces' to put on just like the choices of shoes i own feelings... bitter- i'm disowned just like the morning after pill that now resembles shame A shame that holds life- at ransom A price i can't pay I still endure the pain I don't write poetry anymore as words no longer flow the recycled paper remains empty the ink reminds her of the blood slowly making its way down her thighs- in his hands- A hand...now r

When you have checked out even before you checked in.  when you run a mile even before you let them in.  The mysteries of the world disjointed chemistry no one wants to be bold but would rather live in this misery When you have checked out even before you checked in The constant thought the ego, the feelings, the lusting of this mind, this thing... at the stop of the clock you search for this being When you have checked out even before you checked in To wish  to be  to be inextricably intertwined to each other/to many  to want, to need, to be distant afar close to feel, to taste, to want to simply say in a miscalculated way i crave your mind,  in a diluted sway i move, i move from a distance i look i feel confined knowing full well i have checked out even before i checked in