Prena Poetry

i must have spent an eternity searching for a passion. something — not to keep me alivebut make me feel alive

as though i can go through a day without having to think about my death

who will bury the remains of my work? who will tell my family that my passion for life was just an act out of guilt?

no one.

this so called passion will be forgotten centuries before my bone even starts to rot

so what’s the point of it? that my guilt eats me alive, the guilt of not having a purpose or having no one to witness a masterpiece weep beside a dumpster.