Saturday Poetry: And Don't We Sound Like A Broken Record?

I keep a copy of letters I've written

A backwards looking journal:

2004, 2003, and so on.

I read them when I'm needy

or lost.

Instead of offering solace

they admonish me

flashlighting my self-preoccupation.

And don't, they whisper,

don't we sound like

a broken record?

The song, the same old song again:

I'm unhappy.

Unhappy about not writing.

Writing is kicking my ass.

A minute longer I'm going to be depressed.

Then there's:  I love D. to death.

But I'm having problems with her while

I'm tired.

I'm broke.

And fat and tattered.

But not yet counted among the bitter

I type.

Not yet, not yet.