At TwilightDo what you will with me, Marta.
I've never felt of less worth than I
Do now. On canvases minor and
Major, I falter. A basket of fruit
Becomes unsightly blotches. A
Mythical set piece goes grotesquely
Wooden. I stare at the carnage.
I wish I was dead. When one has
Nothing else to suggest that his life
Has some meaning, but what has
Gone wrong, one balls up. I've
Done so. I just want to sleep,
And to dream (as you mock me)
That I am of some value to someone,
Though not you or me.
Poetry by Lawrence Beck
Read 18 times
Written on 2021-10-07 at 02:32
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