Words Hang.
Words hang.
Words hang,
stale-locked-tights,
deep in the cavern of my mind.
I wander in
dark circles under my eyes.
My Eberhard's a waiter,
and has led me nowhere,
my thoughts are tabled,
and reserved quite early,
but my pencils tips offer me
less than 20%,
on the scratching out
of some profit,
while I am in the process,
of devouring my own brain cells.
My pen is useless
for I am already penned,
a prisoner to my visions,
etched in braille, and unreadable.
I feel nothing but isolation.
I try sitting before my darkened
window to the world,
but it's glow is extinguished,
this far down,
within my sheer emptiness.
The web that flows across it,
in endless patterns, and arrays
snares nothing to inspire me.
Nothing juicy to capture,
wrap up, and then draw upon in
my own life's blood,
as I pursue my passions,
for poetic prowess.
My handwriting spider like,
crab walks into doodles.
I am but a pink, nub eraser,
rubbing against blank walls,
and eroding in
crumbs of little use.
Thus I will find some
oil pastels to fuel,
my desires to be artistic,
then I shall drive the urges,
across canvass highways,
to as yet unimagined scenes.