I was reading my book after a very long time today. 3 poems into it I went like…how fucked my life was?

I could tell it came from the darkest place I have ever been. But then I was surprised I was there, and came out of it.

And now I’m here, sometimes your own past seems unbelievable.

I’m glad I am out but I can’t write like that anymore. Or not now at least. The reason I couldn’t publish 2nd book.

My poetry has lost its intensity.

Part of me want that fire back, but other part of me doesn’t want to go through it ever again.

Life is so weird.

We don’t get everything. But then we don’t know what we want.

Last week I was sick, and then meds made me worse. Wrote this piece and forgot to post it:

…..

After a course of anti-allergy you…