Writing poetry is actually easier when you have hope. When you are not racked with second guessing and deep emotional and physical pain. Who knew? It actually comes as a bit of a surprise to me. Since so much of my work revolves around darker themes. It turns out I was recovering from the pain of loss and that allowed me to write. But the actual pain doesn’t lend itself to other than crippling repetition of the same confused maddening phrases. So, bottom line, I am cooling it with the poetry unless inspired or I’m on the mend. Which is not my state now. I’m torn between wanting to scream or punch things and I can do neither. I want to crawl into someone’s arms and just be held. But there’s no one to do that. So I have to take care of it on my own. She shredded me and it’s eating me up that I don’t know why silence instead of conversation was her choice. Why was I so easy to discard. Nope, shutting up now. Like I said, endless cycle of the same things.