FLAWED MOTION (a writing collection)

CLOSING: anesthesia (this is not a poem, this is a surrender)

The truth is I don't remember how to write poetry anymore. The words used to spill out of me at a 100 kilometers per hour, but now all I have is a vague memory of hands blurring through letters and this–this used to be an escape. I am so obsessed at making everything perfect because everything is getting out of control and the fucking truth is that I am so lonely. And I don't want to be. This used to be an escape from cages formed by my own bed and blankets and pillows and the feeling of dread trapped in these four walls but now it's suffocating me. The truth is I hate myself for what I create, because what I create is shedded snake skin and dead words.

This is not a work of art. This is a surrender.

- fin.