friday, may 16, 1997

e.e. cummings said it wasn't easy

to write poetry.

he was right.

poetry is feeling, not seeing nor thinking

but today i can't seem to feel:

i'm too busy thinking

about breaking up with jody.

lately i've noticed that

it's a horrible bliss.

not much more

than a chocolate-filled hollow,

sort of a pleasant nightmare-dream.

sometimes i feel nauseous

and it gets hard to breathe.

i can't stay together with him.

that is definitely

not an option.

better to separate now

than to atrophy and rot,

passively, anxiously, dumbly,

waiting for the end.

this friday.

i'll do it by then.

blame it on fear of commitment, or even ennui? home