Meaningless Title

I am no longer a writer.
I cannot think in poetic
form any longer.

Exhausted verse
leaks from my first
floor mind like carbon
from nostrils.

I am a smiling woman.

Judge me.
Judge me.

“Carpe the hell out of diem,”
I think.

“Life is what happens
when you’re making
other plans,”
I think.

Every conversation—
about the future—
while now leaks
out with the carbon.

I am smiling now
although I cannot
eat.

I am smiling some.

Life is worth a smile,
worth a cliché
in a Mad Girl’s poem.

I think being a cliché
is worth it, you know.

I will trite around until
I can trite no longer
because I couldn’t
live with this feeling,
or lack there of.

I have no simile,
no metaphor
for this feeling.

I am simply feeling.