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
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.