I admit my desperation
Writing is reaching out

Despite my religious obsessions
I'm mostly about doubt

I need the Feminine
But struggle so with women

Solitude, such solitude
The end is the beginnin'

Close to suicidal
Why continue on?

But not good for my boys
I once taught at St. John's

Called her crying and crying
Later told her why

I know I must let go
But probably only when I die

Now my veggie burrito
And a blue and silent sky

So hard, so hard, so hard
To truly say goodbye

There once was a illness from China
That spread through contact and saliva
Now we drink way too much
And stay inside to avoid touch
I’ll be a drunk at the end of this virus

breeze
freeze
squeeze
miss
his
this
is

love

Don't need uniforms
or suited up control freaks
prompting what we think

                    Kelly McManus

Hello poetry?
What poetry?
All I see is a bland formulation of "creativity"
Expressing the self?
What self?
Who determines the construction of the "self"?
The becoming?