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.

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