passed away

forgot what it feels like
to feel so bad
that writing tragic poems
feels so good.
to even have the need
to write a poem
to release and die.
to be trapped in a corner,
without any strength
to even hit the walls
or ask for help.
living life as a ghost
of one's past self,
a facsimile of what
you've built up all
these years, and find
old familiar feelings lurking
back up again, emotions
you thought you'd left behind.
to read back the darkly
decorated words and feel
relieved and comforted,
that momentary release
of negativity, that quickly
replenishes its self.
yet you find yourself
filling up the pages,
hoping that one day
they might run out,
only to find that once
a volume finishes,
another one creeps up,
his sons in their turn
seem to be even stronger
than their forefathers.
you find yourself with
collections of collective pain
whose meaning is never
fossilised but keeps changing
in accordance to the current.
forgot what it feels like
to feel so bad
that writing stupid poems
feels so good.