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He wishes he could write a poem.
His brain feels like sludge,
Concrete seconds from set.
Exhausted and fumbling
Distant, paranoid, and stumbling.
Race!--his legs won't move.
Feverish dreams from which he can't wake,
Wanted control that he can't take.
Screams fall silent, his apathy violent!
Abuse the blues and you he accuses,
His pen falls through, he blows a fuse!
Strung out too thin, his thoughts don't begin
To give him a fair place to stand.
He reviews his life with commendable strife,
But nothing inspires his hand.
Every step a marathon, every drop a flood;
Every wish impossible, every scratch is blood.
Up to his eyes and sinking feet
Each thought he has seems the last.
Exertion, inertia, gravity, desertion.
He wishes he could write a poem.

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