Is There Even Any Point In The Poetry Anymore?
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?