none of this is poetry

the sadness envelopes me.

seals itself shut, too.

the loneliness i feel is banging pots and pans in my head and irritating the lump that never leaves my throat.

my tired hands are shaky and sad and they cant hold anymore. they cant grip. they can barely type.

the anxiety is overwhelming. it never ends.

none of this is poetry. none of this is prose. all of this is happening.