lapis robin
Feelings I've defenestrated
Festering, festering, pestering
Coming back to haunt me
like some vengeful ghost.
My body lays,
strewn,
on my bed with minimal care.
Stacks of paper lay across the floor full of unfinished ideas.
My pen is clogged and so am I.
Ink splatters forcefully, unwillingly onto the page.
There is an uncomfortable lump in my throat,
and I choke out a sob.
The light flickers.
I falter, then flicker back.
Look back and see that you are incomplete.
Why do I still bleed out words when I can barely breathe?
Why do I still pick up the pen when the ink is almost out?
I look down at the ripped pages and see myself,
ink bleeding through the remains.
Why?
(please be nice on the criticism. Writing this, I was not in a great mental state, and I still am not.)
sterile mirage
heady saffron
toxic helm