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Poem

Brain dead again, once more again
just stringing along dead end thoughts
running out of ideas today
The writers' disease is prevalent, the dreaded writers' block
It's a sickness, unavoidable
oh well
I'll find a way to win this short battle
oh well
It's too easy to get out of this plastic bag hole in which I fell
The grey clouds are calling for rain, I'm calling the same
but why listen to a fool with dreams
I tossed aside an audio message meant to last, last one more day
Regretfully, my temptations kept me at bay
putting up an immovable castle and a moat
though I treated it like a sinking boat
Now the silence of my breath, the music of the day
Is this what I need, fresh air and the spirit of my thoughts
the luring whisper of the wind sinking its teeth calmly into my skin
allowing me to see through its invisible eyes
And all I wonder...and all I imagine...
Does the serenity of the birds chirping
the grass dancing, the leaves slowly falling asleep, the first drops of rain
define all the things describing
'cheerful bliss', 'startling halt of nature', 'chaotic peace'
I am nature's opposite, nature's mistake its letting survive
and I am just fine, I am fine
Colorblind, no; regularly blind, laughably yes in some cases
Just living in the borderline sequence of reality and fiction
twixt twilight; twixt right and wrong
a righteous oblivion fit for a king
but it's home to a loser named me

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