I limp, slower than my liking… A broken bone healed wrong, in the shape of those who came before. No pain. Joints out of place... Poems that don’t rhyme for shit... fans on high and walls to hit. Prose covered in Prozac (I wish)... to calm myself and make sense of it.
Night goes... Credits roll and words don’t show, late for their own party... again. I kill the lights, climbing stairs in the dark... blank pages behind me. Day comes too soon... and another chance to make creative... with an excuse.
A ramble, a rant... random thoughts, out of order, plain... saying nothing much to no one in particular. Time and creativity measured in a ten-day beard. Numb, without pain. Nothing to give... every day the same as the last... and the next.
Nothing to give... taking made legitimate. Self isn’t selfish when it’s only you. Legs up, give it up... all for the process, all for me... irresponsibility. Leave it all behind, because there’s nothing left to take.
Where does it go? And where does it all come from?
Mine is gone.
