My poetry is rotten like my body,
Scared, scarred, and full of holes.
Deterioration of motivation,
A bargain deal for a soul
People pass by I once called friends
With silence and blank stares.
Nothing will matter to me in the end
I’m breathing but not really there.
Love is just another verb,
Another song I never wrote.
This life is a symphony of emotion
But I always play the wrong notes.
I couldn’t care less about love and sex,
Seeking a permanent fix
My hopes, dreams and ideals are all dead
And people just make me sick
Sometimes you get everything
Sometimes you’re left with none
A knock on the door but nobody there
Another fatherless son.
–Jack Blare, 2o16