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.