What An Attempt At A Sunday Morning Writing Practice Produces.

“And what of the self imposed schizophrenia anyway

The luxury of self diagnosed depression

How we suffered strokes

when they told us to share these notes

and journal entries

what of the the stories

we squeeze from our veins and pens

that feels like

we vommitting drones

how we go to war with ourselves

despite ourselves

and all out stuff

unguarded

when did it ever make sense

to put a wound in the line of fire

and what of the madness anyway

how it was never yours anyway

and what of the estranged courage

we calculate

and manipulate

when our spine is all we have

to

hold

us

up

right”

Extract from a new poem, with no title yet.

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3 thoughts on “What An Attempt At A Sunday Morning Writing Practice Produces.

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