I'm all out of wishes for better times, out of lonely nights spent ceiling staring. Just tore up the book I wrote, as it sold no copies, never will, never should. What's the point of writing to a void, blank as empty paper? Maybe it's distorted pride that makes me think I have anything to say or that someone might want to listen and talk back. I got nothing, God, but a ragged semblance of what I was supposed to be. Redeem, redeem, redeem. I pray. Are You there still, yet, always? Fallen apricots, gritty and frosted in the morning, make good throwing stones. Maybe it'll be morning again soon enough and we can make our way down to the water, ceiling stare no longer, and touch the cold surface, throw apricots from the dock, be reminded of the bigger canopy above our silly heads and its millions of happy members. There they are, burning planets and stars, like lanterns floating from the mouth of some medieval castle, making silent singsong in the dark.
Very good and relatable. Definitely reminds me that the barrier between prose ficiton and poetry is permeable.