My poems these days are messy afterthoughts

With no thoughts or rhyme to them anymore

A whirlwind of time pieces that are just eventualities

When they are written they are obscure memories

Scattered against white background and digital ink

They are mainly about you and how you are

But sometimes they are like this and how I am

And sometimes when my poems are too blunt

I tell myself that I am not okay and that I am ill

My poems seem too haphazard after those times