I used to fill notebooks with poetry about 10 years ago, but only wrote sporadically after that, perhaps 1 or 2 a year. I haven’t written anything in about 3–4 years now. I stopped mostly because I realized I didn’t have much of a talent for poetry; writing them was useful for the catharsis that came with it, I guess. I think this might be the last one I wrote:
Mr. Twilight
Blank leaves of grass are my labor of love,
Words in succession from ear to ear,
A fluid train with no last stop:
The ride goes on while I try to recall
Where I got off
I’m the in-between man:
Mr. Twilight.
If you watch me play,
You’ll surely see me fade.
Unhealthy to sing of myself
Because of the rust of lust.
Obsession in my thoughts
Like an anvil on a chain.
Gray matter growing grayer,
I’ve never been wetter.
It’s the in-between hand,
Mr. Twilight:
The Purple man.
Will you leave? Will you stay?
There’s another hand to play…
“Just push over that wall,”
I used to say,
“He’s not a man, you can move him.”
I mix them up, nowadays.
The flipped-coin limitations
Are the friction of this mortal plane.
You can float in-between,
Mr. Twilight,
The Purple Span.
I won’t die with you if you bleed
But I guess I’ll wash your stain.