I've begun to smell my own decay.
Hypoglycemia and accidental fasting,
diabetes and the bloodline I keep.
I have forgotten my ability to eat.
Most in the household, condensed
once the bills got harder to pay.
Prospero is a ghost of a magician,
following his daughter around
because he forgot how to live.
Such has become my fate
on the weekends, during days,
where nobody remembers
that I'm still here damn it
and someone should check on me.
Only hearing from other artists
with hunger for the hunger and not
for the sustenance of making better art.