My poetry is dead

To those who pick themselves up in silence, un-noticed, lost, but won’t give up

I know how it is

To go through the daily ritual. Unwilling to yeild, but exhausted and tired

  Some of us with partners that are cold and frigid, not giving empathy, affection or love shut themselves off from you, then you shut yourself off
 
Others, who are single, but with the same fire in your heart, to give it all, but nobody to accept your power and love, you shut yourself off

You feel deeper, down to the working foundation of others, to touch, express your heat.

Open nerves, always giving, just wanting that touch, the lips, the pressure, to taste, to experience.

©️ Jacob Pickard. 2025.

1st published on Substack