sickle for my harvest, hammer for my doom.

mind is dislocated/slowly disintegrating.

i start things but never finish. i finish things but wish i hadn't.
i say i'll do it,
but i don't.

appetite is thwarted/ legs and arms numb.

jealous to sick/sick with envy.

pain in my forehead where they drove a hammer
right through.

trying to be poetic but end up sounding foolish.
trying to write a poem but only reciting prose.
no rhymn or jingle or barotone. just a tingle in my toes.

'you're not looking hard enough. look harder!'
'you're trying too hard. try softer.'
'you're closing up. get closer.'
'you're a plain disaster.'

as disjointed as this post, so disjointed is my head.
i pile wreckage upon wreckage, fumbling for some comfort and order , but i cut my hands on jagged scraps of distrust.

by default i have nothing.




i am dry and parched, as my parchment blank and pen poised
whereby clashing armies fill my ears with noise.