Bad Taste


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.
It’s a torturous birthing.
It comes in waves.
Anger. Sadness.
Loneliness. Longing.
Physical aching.
Adventures in pain.
Why do I need so much of this torment?
Is it my lot to be eternally heartbroken?
Always.
Forever.
Fragmented.
Wrecked.
Damaged.
Broken.
Ruined.

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