maybe one day
each of these half-written poems
may be pieced together
to create something better,
something complete
because as concrete as
my thoughts are
they never seem to come out
making any sense
and it makes me tense
just thinking about
how I might never amount to anything
and eventually I will learn
to grin at my failures instead
but for now I simply have no feelings left
at all
it is fall outside
but it is winter inside
my soul and the hole
in my heart
continues to grow
much bigger everyday
I say I keep my hope
within tomorrow
but maybe that’s just a lie
I repeat to myself
to make me want to stay
so I smoke a cigarette
even though I quit
over a year ago
and as tobacco fills
my lungs I feel a lunging
in my stomach
and I do not know if it’s
disease that grows
inside of me
or the hate
that has become me
but regardless of the source
this hurting still is so much real
that I want to scream
at this mean world
you see I wonder
often if it’s nothing
but purgatory
one that I made up in my own mind
to cause me pain
but it’s all just the same
at the end of every day
I may be a terrible actor
but this life isn’t a play
Angela Bachmann