It never does.

I keep reading poetry about
death and suicide
and cancer and sorrow
and crashes and cadavers
and f*****g and drowning
and flames of love and how
easily people put them out
and how sometimes s**t
gets lost without our permission
and how things we need to let go
get held onto far longer than our
breath gets to breathe in and out
and chanting prayers and losing faith
and misplacing sanity and clarity
that is found only to be lost again
and the rumble that rips inside us like
thunder without the calm before and after,
only electric corroding our bodies and souls.


I keep writing poetry about
death and suicide
and cancer and sorrow
and crashes and cadavers
and f*****g and drowning
and flames of love and how
easily people put them out
and how sometimes s**t
gets lost without our permission
and how things we need to let go
get held onto far longer than our
breath gets to breathe in and out
and chanting prayers and losing faith
and misplacing sanity and clarity
that is found only to be lost again
and the rumble that rips inside us like
thunder without the calm before and after,
only electric corroding our bodies and souls

like one day if I consume and regurgitate enough
words and syllabuls and nonsense and insanity,
like one day it will make it better












but it never does.