tonight is one of those nights,
isn’t it?

there’s some deadly feeling of boredom,
hanging around my neck, choking me.

It’s not in what you’ve said,
who you’ve become,
or what you’ve done,
it’s something more.

It’s a feeling that became,
a hurricane of emotions,
never letting up,
with nowhere to take refuge.

I write poems that act as walls,
to protect me from the storm,
but they always fail me,
just as my poems fail you.

You search for something more,
some flame to light your way,
through your darkest moments,
but the light never comes,
and all you see are words,
on a computer screen,
or piece of paper.

Life is lived alone,
despite our best protests.