The poetry stands.
The poetry will always stand.
Creativity is the only thing that accepts me for who I am.
Another Christmas spent alone.
I reach out to close friends and they just ignore me.
Guess they’re too busy with their own families to stop and see that the darkness has swallowed me whole.
Or maybe they just don’t care.
And before you think I’m just feeling sorry for myself. Try and understand there is nothing wrong with that.
I sit down and instead of watching a movie or working on another project I just feel hurt and I haven’t a clue what to do with this emptiness, sorrow and derision.
The work stands.
The work is what separates the empty screen from the writing on the wall.
Creativity is the only God force I’ve ever believed in because it never asked me to explain myself or found fault with my existence.
I’m standing here. All five feet and two inches of me.
Standing by the railroad tracks that lulled me to sleep when our self-portraits were painted in fire and alcohol.
I’m standing here waiting for the sun to strike me dead so I can finally live again.