dressed in a
malaise of
poignant mediocrity
bedazzled in
malfeasance and

drowning in all of
the words unwritten
an empty bucket
sitting in a dried up
lakebed watching as
the vultures circle

a jigsaw puzzle
of pangaea
scattered across the
worn beige carpet
a misapprehension
of subtle truth

he knows he should
be writing
but instead he
stares out the window
daydreaming in
a half poetic relapse

every new selfie
shows an unfamiliar
image of strained
dissociative distress
in poignant waves of
malignant mediocrity

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