i have
a story due
on isolation
but i cannot
find it
despite these
daily attempts
the words
won’t sing
the tale
in the right
pitch and timbre
so i keep
starting again
and again
and again
waiting for
one to whisper
its secrets

perhaps it is
all the stress
the hopelessness
in waiting
holding my breath
biting my tongue
biding my time
the fireants
chewing away at
my innards as
dreams chip away
at my sanity

for someone who
doesn’t sleep much
i seem to
sleepwalk my way
through these
technicolor poppy
fields as i follow
the tarnished brick
walkway careful
to avoid the many
potholes in
my tattered soul

i have
a story due
yet
the words
escape me
perhaps
isolation is
too close to
real life
for me to lose
myself in
but i keep trying
leaving a trail
of shitty poetry
to guide myself
home, once again
waiting for
a pestilent portent
to ease this aching
and apply purpose
to my hobo soul