Stepping Back (The Inability to Accept Defeat)
My paper is snow. Emotions are stacked and my body feels like Sunday;
the breathing room creating an inner black hole,
eating up the chance of a profound statement to capture into verse. My insides turn outside, shouting at me, another pseudo-witty poem to distract the mind of some all-seeing critic. I wonder how this happens, six days of claustrophobic jesting,
building up to an openminded failure,
words costing less than a cheesy pop-culture reference.
It’s dark by five o’clock and everything I contemplate