Poem | damed are the prolific.

If all writes hate themselves,

then I’d assume that

the prolific are the worse.

Those loquacious souls

congenitally misunderstood,

who hesitate most

to live their lives

in fear of

letting

go.

Is the nature of the writer

to try and make sense

of their senseless enquiry’s?

A sense of inadequacy.

A sense of alone.

A sense of togetherness

in the non existent

connections they

seek to capture.

Desperate for some recognition,

any at all will ease the pain.

But once gained

immediately fated

to fade.

The need for more,

greater.

Greater proof

of their genius,

Greater, more.

Proof.

Proliferate plain pages

Pontificate the process,

pass on prevailing sentiments

surely sower, not sweet, and

sweat over the page.

Living life backwards

fixated on notions

of how the

devil-lived

in their

mind.

Until they understand

what can’t be quantified.

Meaning captured In

their words

like a photograph as they

age and live the lives they

could never write about.

…