I dare not commit suicide

my existence seems so vestigial

there is nothing I can do

to alter this emptiness

I feel there is nothing I can do

but merely exist

I exist here writing this

instead of doing my work

are those of us poets of romance

dead, dying and useless?

aren’t we all?

am I not the alcoholic

who has driven himself into a tree?

am I not the pianist

who composed a masterpiece?

am I not just a man

involved with matters of the heart?

and what shall become of me?

what becomes of a saint

mistaken as a criminal?

aren’t we all?