Why do I write today?

same question
but a different answer

a matter of point of view
a compulsion
a sickness unto
life
a beggar of
words

everything
are glass stirring
mechanisms
they stir us into
further stirs
whirlpools
me, i am another
one

black and white
the gray areas
they are worth their
own shades
disregard the colors
that do not exist for a while
here

faces and faces
my face
in the mirror
bulging tummies
oh
how did i neglect
my years
pamper myself
with the fats of this
world
this sickness now
into death

Also, (forgive
this mimicry)

following you
behind
nothing to see beyond
meaningless
gestures.

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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