Haven't had the time to be sad lately.
It should be a crime to miss
Melancholy
I am joking.
Yesterday I had the pioneering thought
Never to write personal poetry
Confessional poems, as they call them,
Or at least limit the word vomit
And more often than not, switch to something topical.
Political polemical daily dystopian
Anything but the niche of my narrow, congested life.
I imagined you looking at my poems
Concluding that I am nothing but a woman
Full of herself
Half of human
Thrice a bottle of wine
(I am convinced that my whining with words
Has the potential to intoxicate).
All I could end up writing
My fingers on the keyboard, fight-or-flighting
Just yesterday's date.