the words hover
just beyond my
feeble grasp
and the hopelessness
is palpable
my confidence is
shattered and
no matter how hard
i struggle through
i know i am
beating myself
into submission
roaming this
myopic wasteland
every muscle spasming
as i strain the
algae ridden surface
for potable water

i need to be held
just until this storm
passes into night
to feel as if
one thing i touch
doesn’t disintegrate
from terminal boredom
a reminder that
these cycles are
temporary in their
asture permanence

what is a writer
who cannot write
anything but poetic filth
storyless
pennyless
bereft of the one thing
that keeps him sane
in the catastrophes
of his own creation

coffee and her
sending my love
to the three
that keep me tethered
through the sparrows
frantic on the fence
suffocating on the
miasma of doubt
billowing up
as i deflate to the
hot concrete
a stagnancy of
clawing at the words
lodged in my throat
insular sorrows