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
otherness –
I just don’t know

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