Once more, with feeling

It doesn’t feel like poetry anymore.
It feels too watched, too studied, to analyzed with a modicum of your memory,
too silent and not literal,
too based on who I am alone and driving,
too blissful and/or disturbed based on what song plays on the radio,
too focused too focused too focused
on everything and nothing at the same exact second,
too injured to be so strong, too strong to say I’m still wounded,
too aware that vampires are real and they used to be my lovers and friends,
too gray in this in-between to know what light or dark is,
too tired of calling it “light” or “dark” when it’s all an imperfect scale,
too hopeful to not mention it,
too aware of my own faults and how lovingly I caress them after the tears,
too enlightened to what is happening right now to resist it,
too sure that I am unsure and I am in love with it.

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