Only the hand
which has imprisoned me
can set me free,
I’ve grown into an
existence predicate on a
promise of contingency;
If the true love of her
life happens to not be the
love of her life she believes him
to be,
she’ll call me,
& not a single instance prior
will a single inquiry from me will be a desire
these hands are too shaky
to reciprocate promise,
to await a moment come too late,
not soon enough,
or not at all;
Every passing moment
is a moment I’ll write
& every book I’ll write,
will gradually kill me a bit more
The day you call,
is the day I’ll already be as
good as a dead man
Dontrell Lovet't
from, [The Failed Writer]
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