114/365

you gotta be
a pretty
pretentious
prick
to pretend
anyone cares
about your
poetry.

the audacity
to think
stringing
a few words
together
to try to
trigger truth
is valuable.

and to not
even revise them,
give them a second look,
or use poetic devises?

just a litany
of daily observations
tethered together
as lists
using only
lowercase letters
creative stanzas
and line breaks?

yet
here
we
are:  

standing in the rubble
of a fourth wall.

both of us
together
and alone
at the end
of another
one.

feeling as if
something
has happened
again.