some nights my
walls are failing
and my mind
is empty-
grasping at straws
flailing against
the vastness of
nothing inside-
just shadows too
shrouded in their own
darkness that I cant
even put words to my
own fear
and the pages remain
and I start to worry
about my foundations-
if they are as important
as you say
and I have no words
day after day-
are all the insides going
to slide out raw and wet
all over the floor?
or is this failure to create
a much worse fate-
nothing left inside
just a dark place to hide?

“bukowski”- 9-3-12-jessicagadziala


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