upon poetry filled with painful nostalgia is jarring and also sobering.
reality becomes vivid and suddenly all of my problems are sitting next to me nudging my arm.
there’s a hole in my elbow.
my issues don’t know when to let go
and I don’t know where to go when I get this low, I don’t have the energy to dig a hole
and I don’t know where it would lead me anyways?
I’ve been crying and writing for days and I’m still filled with misery.
Even when I stop reading my poems they write to me. an unavoidable history.