I’ve taken to writing down pointless words again
and running my hands through my hair
as the dark creeps in and I’m trapped
once again, inside this bubble of myself.
Oh, the devilish familiarity!
The sickening obviousness!
It seeps from me like a gloved hand
slowly pulling the wet, pungent petals
from the dead stem or from the thin air
right in front of me.
So many roads to follow
and none of them mine.
Agitation of hands. Strength of words. 
i should’ve never given up writing poetry. nor should you