I made you read my crappy poem. You kept hoping that the investment of your time would be rewarded, that there would be some linguistic brilliance that would make it all worthwhile. You kept waiting for the gut punch and the mind-altering enlightenment to sneak under your radar and grab you. It's too late now to stop reading; mom always said to finish what you start. Hope for skill or even insight is fading now but curiosity and a tinge of anger replaces it. There's a decision to just pity the poem like a fat kid trying to climb the monkey bars with everyone else. He's never getting laid. His life will probably suck. This is just sad. Digging deeper now, searching for hidden meaning within the clumsy rambling word vomit. There's no hope. Resolving and surrendering to reality is inevitable, it’s a part of the healing. I’ve been told it’s a process. It's a crappy poem, and it hurts.

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Y. J. Hall

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