Unreliable Misery

There is this deep, evasive emptiness
that never ceases to lack control.
That conquers and escapes,
that stirs quiet chaos in my soul.

And there is this voice of vacant words,
which implore me to find structure instead.
But the broken writer cannot rebuild.
The unabridged poet is dead.

And I look at this self pity,
embodied in this girl.
And I have no inclination-
no desire
to be her.

This poem is about: 
Our world



I like the poem, and I know how it feels...I love what you do, and keep your pride.


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