The word is that writing doesn’t matter

That books and poetry are nothing

But the fantasies of writers

Who see survival as a dumping ground

Of all the dead emotion they can’t bear

To carry for one more second

But if that’s true

Then why are we here?

Why are you here

Reading my poetry?

Is it to feel something?

Or is it to finally feel numb?

Am I writing for you?

Or for me?