I write because I find it difficult to breath, without.
This writing is a hand held out - to other people,
to accept, or not.
As for myself, I'm not that important, but you could find me other places, too.
he stares into the bundle of garment
slumped and discarded in a heap by the bed,
it seems to him to possess an identity itself,
it seems to him that his life has been tied up
in its threadbared arms and tattered length,
a hulk of mass produced cloth, purchased
by sale on a stupid cold winter day,
worn for years and always neglected,
out of the corner of his eye it appears to move:
to speak in a silent monotonous tone of regret,
'why have you abandoned yourself?'
dressing, and, the dull tone of morning weather,
the cloth on leg sounds, the button on suede
breaks; a cotton thread, button falls
an empty promise that never mattered,
summer on the lost promise of youth.