At Least Bad Poetry Can’t Be Quarantined

Being cooped up in your apartment for weeks comes naturally when you’re a writer.
I’ve been practising social distancing since high school.
Back then I was a nerd when I said I couldn’t go out because I had to stay home and write.
Now I sound smart.
Now I am writing and I’m missing my friends and family.
I saw my mom today from the prescribed two meters away. It was the first time in my life that I did not hug or kiss my mom hello or good bye.
What the hell have we come to?
This is the difference between writing and living.
This is the mucosa between wrapped in a dream and a comforter a second after the alarm sounds.
This is the placenta between not knowing you’re drooling in your sleep and rolling over and waking face first in that pool of drool.
This is the distance swimming the lake when it’s ten miles to either side and like newborns, we just keep kicking.

2 thoughts on “At Least Bad Poetry Can’t Be Quarantined

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s