A Confessional Poet's Lament

[heslopian]

I try to write nice things, I swear.
Maybe it's an illness, but then that was always my mother's excuse
for why she couldn't take care of her kids; not that I want or need your pity.
Pity is something I hate, a pile of rubbish
which from a distance looks like crystal. I am nothing if not
an amateur image-maker. Picture me at the kitchen desk,
or lying in bed with a laptop propped on my chest.
If I was rich I'd fill a house with books
then live in it, live in it, live in it. I'd take a lover called James
and study nature. Or I'd crawl into death like a simile
that tries to make death glorious. I call myself a nihilist,
when really I'd like to watch butterflies, and write about honey on toast.

[philoinlove]

I loved your poem. It has a great free structure that has a woven form. I love it. Good job, you are a great image maker

[Volaticus]

I love to whole free, honest feel of this poem. A fresh breath of air. I enjoyed reading your poem a lot

[heslopian]

Thank you trueenigma, philoinlove and Volaticus for your kind comments

[Heartafire]

Seems unanimous, I too love this very strong poem, I think you dug deep for this one and it has paid off in a very evocative read. I particularly love this:
If I was rich I'd fill a house with books
then live in it, live in it, live in it. I'd take a lover called James
and study nature. Or I'd crawl into death like a simile
that tries to make death glorious. I call myself a nihilist,
when really I'd like to watch butterflies, and write about honey on toast.
Very fine writing.
Heart

[heslopian]

Thank you for your kind feedback, Heartafire