Is There Even Any Point In The Poetry Anymore?

Photo by freestocks on Unsplash

Like the last time I unclasped the necklace

And the first and last time I ever danced at a party.

Like the way I cried on my kitchen floor when I wouldn’t let myself eat cereal because it had too many calories.

Like all of the times I drank when I didn’t want to.

Like all of the times I gave up on myself because someone else decided I was less than.

Like when grad school called my writing cliche and now every time I sit down to write, I just hear it repeated.

Over and over and over again.

How many things are there left to take

Before it all caves in from being so hollow?

I can’t even write anymore

Without feeling like I’m doing it wrong.

Is there even any point in the poetry anymore?

Why bother?

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