smoky flicker
My day feels like the economy breaking down ever
so slowly -
the reasons may be speculative
as to why I feel a four out of ten
instead of ten-four.
My dopamine like stagnant salary
deflated in the core of my being.
I have no love for my stories currently,
nor deep wishes or want to work towards.
I am too quiet behind closed doors and my
static even drowns out my own voice.
There is no choice,
but to rhyme in extra therapy.
I wish I was a little sadder sometimes
as any strong feeling is worth it.
This dull pain is a stone in my shoe.
It distracts me from creating
and doesn't force me too.
Even this labour will burn in vanity.
No inner reactions and only inaction.
As barely failing a test instead of
flunking it with frolic.
If I had the energy
I would warn myself
about the subtle dangers.
Alas, I need no warning at all
although the conversation would
be less boring, I am sure
than my slight complaining.
So I turn a wrench on this rusted tap.
It takes all the grease in soul's
elbow to squeeze something out.
This precious drop
falls to grey ground
and ripples
in silent circles
around these
fading feet
and emptiness.
I am not complete
and something is amiss.
Too late, to let...
too much boring regret.
Empty streets
dot the mind's own map.
I wait for my eyes to observe again.
and music to guide my hand.
All of my worries I squeeze,
just fists full of sand.
sour nova