Soulstuff

poetry

I feel crisp footsteps under my soles
as my soul attempts to search itself
I always make this walk so long
but what is there to find, turning out
all of these empty pockets?

Is there worth in lint? In so much lint
to fill these empty closets with?
Each turn finds naught but lint and
each closet fills so slowly and I’ve
got so much of this worthless stuff.

But maybe it will catch fire.
Cause it’s own fitting end to a life
spent stuffed behind faux-wood doors.

The latch doesn’t even fucking work right.
Though maybe that’s okay.

Sometimes soulstuff needs to breathe,
I reckon.

Maybe that’s the problem all along.

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