What is it about misery that turns me into a poet?
Despair and love.
Funny how the former is easier to access.
Is it the abbreviated thoughts?
The brief moments of clarity before the next onslaught?
Short and acrid.
I have a bad taste in my mouth.
Itâ€™s a torturous birthing.
It comes in waves.
Adventures in pain.
Why do I need so much of this torment?
Is it my lot to be eternally heartbroken?