I want to write poetry.
I can’t remember how long it’s been,
all I know is,
I just want to write.
I want these beautiful images
to evoke inexplicable emotions,
and I want to be moved,
and so doing, move you,
leave you, the reader, gaping at my superiority
with the language laid before me.
But the truth is, I’m tired.
It’s been a long day, my bed is waiting,
but still waiting.
There are little tear stains on the pillow,
and it still smells like the body
that used to occupy the rumpled other side,
I don’t have the heart to tidy.
But I don’t want to ache for the absence of that being,
nor do I wish to weep,
for this feeling of empty, loneliness,
is gently eating me,
but not tonight.
Tonight, I just want to write poetry.