bar writing

depression
saps away the will to write
like a mosquito on a vein
feeding off my blood.

my written words melt
on whiskey-soaked pages
while I refill my glass — 
no ice.

late afternoon,
one excuse after another:

my head hurts too much;
I’m out of things to say;
I’m no good anyway;
I keep writing the same thing;
I need to think more;
I don’t want to.

sun sets slowly on another day in bed — 
the bedroom grows darker
while I mourn the sunlight I can’t get up to see,
much like I can’t

get down a single word.

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