Buzzcut Season

I wish I wrote the way I thought;
Obsessively,
Incessantly,
With maddening hunger.
I'd write to the point of suffocation.
I'd write myself into nervous breakdowns,
Manuscripts spiralling out like tentacles into abysmal nothing.
And I'd write about you
a lot more
than I should.

— Benedict Smith

Vicious Circles

Come to think of it
I'm not entirely sure
where I lost myself

Maybe it was in those eight hours of class time
lost in notes and due dates
equations and definitions

In beds of strangers
or old friends
who I no longer know the whereabouts of

Was it in love lost and forgotten?
Perhaps words and friendly exchanges
greetings and goodbyes

Did I lose myself somewhere
along those roads driven on late nights
to places with people whose faces I won't ever recall?

Did I leave myself behind in books or shows or at the cinema?
In lonely coffee shops?
Or crowded concert halls?

Or maybe it was in the ticking of clocks
and the counting of time
waiting for the better times that never came

Come to think of it
I'm not entirely sure I lost myself
I'm not entirely sure I ever had myself

Maybe all these places
are where I've found myself.

-A