Home » Poetry » …writing…



through the pain, until

the pain feels like pleasure

and the words spill like wine—


just for pleasure, until

the meaning’s lost for good

and the taste’s just stale bread—


like a ghost, until

your thought just disappears

and crumbs scatter the floor—


now for what?

When pleasure causes pain,

it pains me now to see

last years apparition in the waste bin.

One thought on “…writing…

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