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,
either
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?