I can't write because I'm all out of antics

My words have lost any freedoms they once had.
Too trapped by fear of confrontation. Of scaring someone off.
My actions? Governed by tiring questions and re-considerations.
Poetry provided a barrier from the worry of inherent allocations
but it now provokes internalizations of what seperation feels like,
and I am unable to poetically reveal the reality of feeling shitty. Because feeling shitty is
T o t a l l y p a t h e t i c.
There are no euphemisms worth using for
the stinging feeling of regret that loneliness leaves.
There is only the irritation always dwelling beneath the skin, until it swells and I reveal an unfair general lack of respect
for the concept of 'we'.
"We" in poetry, in fiction, the relationship between writer and reader.
"we" in relation to myself and anyone.
"We" like this thing other people seem to have, or have gotten really good at getting me to believe they have.
Like they have "we" without trying.

And fuckit I am still trying.
Trying not to resort to inaction. To paper without pen lines and computers with broken keyboards.
To a life left unfulfilled because anything else would be scary.
But I'm tongue tied, self pitying, and too concerned, to be interesting.
And half the time I am no longer trying to prevent disconnect because I don't believe I can.
I can't keep up with anyone, and I'm no longer confident that anyone wants to keep up with me, this town ,or these same words written.

A customer told me I looked lost today, and although they probably meant directionally,
I wonder if one can tell when they meet someone for the first time whether or not that someone is missing something.
I'm missing everything.
But what does that mean anymore in a place where I've always felt this way....In a place where I've always been?

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