You ain’t immortal even if you’re a poet

Quarantined in 400 square feet of, “I’m used to this, it’s home.”

I managed to cook and clean. Birds sing, enjoying the sun.

I sit here, enjoying my solitude.

Declared a pandemic, let us begin by remembering that love is also capable of being this.

Love should always be this.

I am only scared because the calm inside me is yawning.

I knew it’d come in handy to entertain my vibrant misanthropy.

A city in affliction, while precautionary poetry acts like a solution.

There isn’t time for sadness.

A cocktail numbs the malady.

A poem encourages ease.

I gladly see no purpose.

I sleep to get relief.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s