when this malaise this bonerot this thorn of ivory driven through the pupil of hope this whipping winds of salt upon bare nerves

when the chemicals malfunction a blight covers the landscape within the sepulchre inside the still chest of the parakeet caged

in those brief moments of busy when the shackles slip for a glorious unnoticed instance of soaring something akin to joy

only for the port-a-potty to tip as the reality that you don’t feel sad or angry or bitter or anything you don’t feel anything at all at all

fuck

i don’t feel anything at all

and that is no way to be

it is like being a luke warm bath and the water cover all of your face but your nostrils stick out but if you inhale deeply water enters

so every breath is just a touch too shallow as the bands of iron grip your ribs squeezing the will out in gorgeous agony in absentia

to try and full this emptiness this lack of this wretched fucking nothing the mind races for a source only sees her crying face

my mind is a compass needle spinning in place like a helicopter blade trying to find a fucking home that doesn’t even exist

where do you go then

where do i go now

it hurts
looking for purpose
as the house
burns to the ground
around you

and all you do is smolder.