I could write about castles and elves and fated love all night long but then I'd ignore all my chores and dream
the day gone
I can write these enemies into perfect lovers but where's my energy to fold these freshly washed quilted covers?
The slow burn ends when my pen hits the page but when I'm met with reality
all I feel is rage
And in my poetry I find escape but I'm just staring at my wall, and hitting my vape.