Oblivion Left To Go
Devoid of inspiration,
my hands suffer hesitation.
Drought, no percipitation.
Always good inspiration.
Bury me in brazen light.
One line of sensation,
while my verbal mind cramps so tight,
it drowns in its perspiration.
Like a drawer and his animation
Like scoring dope at a gas station,
or some more dangerous location;
I am lead by an unruly compulsion
to write, to write, and find more to write,
thus avoiding a dullard combustion.
So, this thought has been drained out,
and I still can't write quite like Poe.
But, this is just one more day down
with oblivion left to go.
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