I used to write poetry. Lots. Back when I was not old in spirit, I guess. But maybe that's no excuse.
I'd like to write one now. I'd like to read it out loud to someone, anyone. I miss lighting candles in the dark and communing with my titas and Neruda. I miss scribbling verses on the back pages of my notebooks, and hiding them in drawers so my mother won't be able to read them.
"Do not read poems to those who don't understand poetry," or something like that, said Greene in 48 Laws of Power. Sigh. I don't even know if I write good poetry.
Have I become a sad person? Not melancholy, not troubled or frustrated, but sad in a dull, plain way. I'd hate to think so. Especially now. Because Im quite happy now.
Langya Lara labo mo.
And why do I write such curt sentences? Is that a good thing or not?
Shit I don't make much sense, do I?
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