Analysis.

Bleeding my life out onto a page

is quite the chore.

Probably because I have no idea

whether or not I actually have one,

or am trying to live many.

I attempt it anyway

in the prose form I prefer;

hundreds and thousands of words

that are supposed to represent

my personality and my feelings.

Lists of rights and wrongs,

dos and don’ts,

successes and failures,

hopes and fears and

all the other crap in-between.

I don’t really get anywhere,

at least not at first.

Not until I realise that I’m

just clinging on to the past –

so I slap myself, in view of everyone.

It works – people stare at me

like I’m some kind of lunatic,

but afterwards I feel a lot calmer.

I order a coffee and some cake,

and proceed to write something less sentimental bullshit.

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