I'd like to be able to write again, but the universe is turning too slow in the wrong direction.
My heart drips instead of duh-dums
And my breath slips.

Rhyming sticks to the top of my mouth catching grains of rhythm as I regurgitate yesterday's thoughts.

I haven't been able to write lately, not because I am a bumbling busy body, but because time is frozen, I'm cemented and dissolving into the tasteless air.
Everything is too colourful lately, too... anything for me to understand.

Maybe I should start reading again, go back to painting stale blue skeleton hands with not enough paint.

Maybe that's my problem... There's not enough paint in my life.