I’m bleeding out by pen and dribbling thoughts.
Crowding, crawling thoughts that through the muck
Of unescaped, grey expectations, simply
Crushed and crystallized and glopped together,
Now yellow, thick, are seeping to my brain,
Then sliding up the eyes and forcing them
To bulge with reddished rims and glassy stare.
White words are winging past my ears like bugs
Or robins laboring to keep themselves aloft,
Not resting, lest their nests add clutter to
My head. My soul crawls ‘round my guts and back
And up my slimy, scratchy throat to flee.
But naught comes in, and nothing out. Not air,
Not thoughts, not words can leave my sloshing ocean
Of illness, dullness, vacant coughs and ache.
