Existential Crisis 


Existential Crisis

‘Poetry doesn’t exist,’
he said sadly
He put his hand on my chest
Soft fingers that still smelt of whiskey
‘This.’ He whispered. ‘This is real.’
‘This imaginary dialogue in your head
This narrative, descriptive of he said she said
-It doesn’t exist.
I know you want it to
I know it makes the world more beautiful
To you
But it’s not real,’ he added,
with the air of someone breaking bad news
‘Poetry doesn’t exist.’
And he lay down with me under the moon
In the wet grass that needled my back with
Its tiny points
And his arm was under me
And we kissed

‘Stupid man,’ I thought languorously
Stretched out next to his chest, damp
With dew and sweat
He slept, and I watched him

My poetry



6 thoughts on “Existential Crisis 

  1. Wow, I really felt this work. Fantastic. I look forward to digging into more of your work.

    Liked by 1 person

  2. PapaBear says:

    Nice one, Cookie. 🙂

    Liked by 1 person


    This one is perfect! Just fucking PERFECT!


  4. Madsies says:

    This makes me shudder! It’s that beautiful!


Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s