the silence, the loneliness, the poems of mine
all’re same all’re wired. Even if I try writing
a love poem I’ll write on the warmth the bed
holds after love; I’ll write dryness of mouth
not the taste of lips. vacant, long, blank,
they’re my moxie, they’re my alias.
bear with me readers. I write, solitude,
of sultry disturbance, of my loneliness,
many poems; sometimes different…
Last 3 lines played with punctuation.