another one

another one

some nights
on repeat
like this.
the same:
over and again
and again and over.

not in a bad way,
(necessarily)
maybe it’s good.
who can tell?
feel
the repetition,
the spin,
the centrifugal force
of existence.
exhilarating
exhausting.

how many times can i write
the same poem:
the one about the well of music
and those other vagaries  
constantly submersed
in and with
a sustained emptiness.

the darkness congested with--
i think i should
i wish we could
i hope you would.

desire brimming with expectations
propelled by the yearning to create
perplexed by the vacuity.