it is quiet
i cannot tell
if it is the wind
or a baby crying
a muffled wailing
seeping through
the apartment walls

i am stuck
unable to move
forward as none
of the ideas
feel good enough
second guessing
the fifteenth guess
tearing it all
into pieces
littering the floor
shards of eggshells

on the badside of
my poverty
cutting calories
to stretch pennies
trapped in a pocket
of cyclical disaster

i feel cold
shrouded in
inability
well aware
without this
perpetual woe
there is not
enough left
inside to ever
be anything more
than a mime
screaming in
lowercase
stuck in a box
of my singular
insanity

at least i know
how to bleed pretty
i just wish
i knew how to stop