If it were
then it would 
but this was
and this will 
gnaw at me 
whittle me down 
from the tree
to the twig
it does nothing 
ever to nurture 
this nature me
it doesn’t prune 
or even shade 
but rather ignore 
and let wither
within and without 

Is this emptiness 
nothing then or 
was it something 
once no longer 
when exactly does 
empty happen before 
or after fulfilled
am I then 
a balloon or
a hole dug
a cup whose 
only reminder of 
once being filled 
are lipstick kisses 

What to write 
what to write 
when writing doesn’t 
what to do 
what to do 
when doing doesn’t 
what to think 
what to think 
when thinking doesn’t 
I guess doesn’t 
I guess that 
I will doesn’t 
then for doesn’t 
seems like the 
do du jour

I have made
so many mistakes 
so so many 
and the sadness 
with which I
am now left
is crippling but 
too the forgiveness 
not just from 
others but myself 
too for myself 
of myself forgiveness 
starts somewhere usually 
from the outside 
first for others 
are most forgiving 
but the inside 
is where forgiveness 
at last roots 
giving life there
finally another chance 

There’s a certain 
luxury living alone 
it’s the quietness 
I think the 
solitude and serenity 
and the sun
shining inside just 
for me to 
see and moon
for me to 
gaze so many 
things I see
that no one 
else ever does 
me being here
alone by myself