Grown

I did not choose to

be a poet,

these words thrusted themselves 

onto me,

I did not beg,

I didn’t lie awake

each night, staring 

into the abyss 

hoping for a talent

that would never let

me rest;

I did not ask for this,

for this loneliness,

for this feeling of never quite

being complete,

to sit awake for hours,

longing for the abyss 

to come

and just swallow me

up;

I did not desire 

the pain that holds

hands with art,

the same very pain

that I swore 

I would never endure 

again;

I did not choose to

become this miserable mess

of a brighter former self;

why?

All I can ask is why?

I would quite like to mingle with

the crowds and pretend that

their stupidity is no longer stupidity 

but humour; 

I did not choose to be

such a bore,

such a mess

but, as I write this,

I imagine my death

and all feels complete. 

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