a lamentation

I am writing again

and worse than I used to.

Wondering if it was a passing phase or,

unforgivably

if I left it to rot.

A graveyard full of fractured verse.

Maybe I can only write about absence,

forever tracing the contour of my unfulfilled desire.

What I call my art,

anyone else would call an empty house.

I am writing again,

but the words are still born.

Blue-lipped and incomplete,

these poems will never breathe.

Could it be that I only ever wrote to fill myself up?

Inventing meaning out of my own blood and bones.

All of these,

a ballad to my own haunting.