Poem - 13th January

I haven’t really written in a small handful of years

For lack of words, lack of guts, lack of drive, lack of might.

In shame, every poem is a call to the reader for salvation,

Justified in a worded haze of amalgamated sensations.

I haven’t inhabited my body for a while,

Will the outgrowth spread and evict me too out of my mind?

And once that happens, will I be finally free or will I be wasted?

Absorbed in every poor excuse of what could be and what I waited.

Luckily there is bliss in the hours before creation, a treaty of peace alongside the expectation.

But once that’s over hold me tight with eyes and brain, for the warmth of that very embrace is what I crave.