Loneliness: a painful, poisonous friend
that feeds our endless spirals, inner holes and gaps
that us poets need in order to mend
what poetry defines as a trap.
Painfully waiting for those burning, prickling sensations,
but these days I’ve felt too loved, too well-cared,
that I’ve lost the ability to make reasonable literary decisions,
leaving all intentions and emotions bared.
Myself, yes that’s what I need to be again,
not a bother, a baby, an illiterate bastard
who can’t write proper sentences. I need to abstain
because I don’t want to get scarred
by you, now that all that used to hurt me
are in you so beautifully.