This is not the end - my life - no movement
of the pen no scrawl not one word at all
i am no writer no poet no author of great works
the life i long to live - am i living it somewhere
else? are the hopes that i abandon here, there
visibly beyond my present reach? i am in the
wrong place, having a bad time. i want to leave.
i want to go home now. (i want to be everywhere)
but no, i am unformed / unmoved (how i long to
disappear) but if i would only allow myself to write.