Here and There

It is a gift to grasp at my anger,

to use it to create, to re-create a moment later.

Poetry feels fraudulent as I try to capture

the moment before this one.

The one I had to let go of. I cannot

summon it from those places

ideas go to die.

My anger carefully sprouted from

rock bottom,

watered with tears, fed by the fire

of not-giving-a-fuck.

Where is it now,

after I have treated it with a morsel

of soma,

medicine to get through

another night of living

in the fallen world?

Until next time, I suppose.

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