to exist


i don't much like to write prose

i suppose it doesn't have to rhyme

i suppose it doesn't have to make much sense,


to be real is to see yourself

and be seen by others

to exist is to look in the mirror

and see something you can touch

these both ring true to the eyes

why not to the mind?

to fight the same battle every night

the senses and the spirit

i find myself often wishing i didn't

it would be easy not to

i stay out of weakness

and out of fear i may miss what i leave

wet spots on bedsheets

red stains on duvet

empty places inside

blinding lights outside

to exist is to be seen,

so why can't anyone see me?