title: who needs it?

 

I’ve got to write a poem.
It’s in me to put the words
together.
But right now
I have nothing worth giving
to anyone.
And isn’t poetry for giving?
But who would want
the bitterness
and disappointment
which are in my heart?
Who wants the pain,
the rejection,
the loneliness,
the self-pity
and its boon companion,
self-loathing?

Who wants the hopelessness,
endlessness,
the fear,
the cynicism?
Who wants the strangled hopes,
the dying beauty,
the self-respect
that isn’t any more?
To whom would I give these,
and who would accept them?
Who cares?
Not you?

 
image on the edge of an old shingled roof
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