Maybe drinking wine would validate my sorrow.

Hello. The Mass of Christ pulls closer on my winter-kissed face and I think I'd like to see my family.
Re: Poetry.I wrote it so much more last year. This year my creative flow has been stilted and starved. However, I did write this merry little ditty, joyful as it is, entailing the laziness of many bone idle bums around me. My ex-boyfriend used to tell me, much to my distaste, that all my writing was morbid and I needed to write about happiness, but happiness does not induce words for me, sorrow does. What sort of writer does that make me then? Confessional, I suppose. But most of the time I use imagery so detached from my own experiences that it can't be seen as a piece of me, more a piece of how I conceive every one else. Anyway, pretentious drivel over, this is a bigbravebold move for me, putting poetry on t'net. Enjoy it, hungry penguins.

cold fat unspeaking.

body is just bone idle
to the new rise of day watch
as it reverts into stone at the
thought of easy gone away introvert
and officious again the calendar
strikes time away sluggishness
corrupts your brain so defeated
unmoving you’ll stay corpse cut
eyes shut shine dissipates
and those joints gain clots of cold fat unspeaking.

your tongue tastes
its fate your forgotten liberty
falls
fast
for the trap
of fatigue consuming your sight
and conceit carving
reason from none of conviction
unwilling to fight
the cold war that's just begun