I love writing
mostly because I hate it
it drives me crazy
in that way – underneath
the skin and bones
poking at my spirit and soul
it makes a ruckus
it’s trying to escape
I want it to
I need it too
I feel I’ll suffocate
or perhaps implode
melt into a nothingness
suddenly be gone
I don’t know
even after I’ve written
it’s never done, never over
torrential downpour
the river flows on
it kills people too
it kills me
I’m always drowning
sometimes in bliss
otherwise
otherness –
I just don’t know

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